


À la Claire Fontaine

by GoAskAllyse



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Eventual Romance, M/M, Mimes, Poisoning, Possible Character Death, Psychological Horror, Stalking, Suspense, game-standard violence, non-sexy tentacles, seriously this is a Wes fic of course there are mimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-02 00:02:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13306140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoAskAllyse/pseuds/GoAskAllyse
Summary: All Wilson Higgsbury wants is to go home; Maxwell had told him he'd need to pass through five worlds before he could get to the end. But when a mysterious voice sounds through the divining rod, will Wilson listen to its warnings? Hasn't he learned his lesson about listening to talking radios?





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson Higgsbury wants nothing more than to go home. But while traveling through the progressively more complicated layers of the Constant, he finds himself taking an unexpected detour. Hasn't he learned not to listen to talking radios?

_Five worlds_ , Wilson remembered. That was what he had to hold on, what played through his head over and over as he traversed the increasingly awful circles of Hell that made up the Constant. Five worlds to pass through once he’d remade the activation mechanism to enter the second portal. The first had been horrible; there was no real way to gauge how long he’d been away from home and stepping through that first portal to begin his escape had been terrifying in and of itself. Another trick, another layer of the Constant revealed only for the scientist- Wilson hadn’t seen another living soul save for Maxwell when he was here, though he had found graves and could presume that there were hapless unfortunates buried there.

 

But when he’d found that portal Wilson first found something that felt like hope. The game was changing. The first world had not been so different than what he had become accustomed to, save for the fact that it was disorienting. It shifted from blistering cold to scorching heat without warning and the rain was constant; the next world existed in a state of constant winter. The only way he managed to mark the passage of time with any kind of accuracy was with the knowledge that it took about four weeks for him to go from clean-shaven to grisly mountain man. _Who needs a watch when you have a beard?_ When there was no one else around there was no way your jokes can fall flat; Wilson was funnier when he was alone. All he had to do was build a device to teleport to the next world and Maxwell, a sporting demon, left the pieces for him to be able to do it.

Wilson remembered when he saw him first- the demon was a tall, thin creature with an aquiline nose and an immaculate suit; no matter what muck Wilson found himself in, Maxwell was always perfect. That changed once he started moving between worlds. With each passage deeper, the ruler of this world seemed more unhinged; the fur collar of his heavy winter coat seemed matted and his gloved hands grew more and more like shadowy claws. To see _Maxwell_ \- a creature who refused to give up control- so close to fraying? It was the first win he’d managed to score in this hellhole.

 

Triumph didn’t keep you fed, though.

 

This world was more hospitable than the other two, living in a state of perpetual springtime. He’d been there for a total of twenty-eight days (long enough that he’d already had to shave once) and had already found most of the pieces he needed to build the teleportation mechanism to shift worlds again. He slung his backpack off his shoulders, its dried grass making a soft rustle as it met the gravel beneath him. His stomach made its displeasure known, filling his guts with the uncomfortable tightness that came from hunger. Wilson retrieved a long strip of meat from a pouch; it was cold and still left a wet residue on his palms when he touched it. He could still see the places on it where he’d ripped out the spikes and it made the still-healing wound on his left side sting. Since food was scarce, the scientist had to toss his preferences out the window and move to hunting less palatable game. The battle with the tentacles in the swamp left him with cracked armor and enough food to last him a few more days- a week if he stretched it. His stomach was too insistent to wait on the luxury of cooking the meat first. He closed his eyes tight and took a bite, the monster’s flesh still rubbery and sick on his tongue. He took a second bite, then a third and fourth.  Wilson retched, his hands coming up to his mouth to make himself to swallow instead of spitting it out. _Five more bites, you can do this,_ the scientist thought as he forced the fetid meat down. Even cooked, the former foe tasted like the rot he’d found in the swamp and whatever the creature had eaten; Wilson knew he had to be insane to want to put that thing in his mouth. Its ichor and blood burned as it slid down his throat into his guts; hunger was sated, but at a price. The scientist felt weak.

_You just need one more piece,_ he thought. _That stupid potato thing- whatever that is supposed to be- maybe you just forgot it?_ Wishful thinking, but wishful thoughts kept him going these days. He removed the wooden box-type device and sat it on the ground beside him. Wilson emptied the rest of the bag less-than-carefully and found nothing new.  The ring, the wooden box, and the crank. Wilson frowned.

 

“Fine, I never really liked potatoes anyway,” he pouted.

 

He was silent for a solid ten seconds before the absurdity of it all struck him. The scientist laughed, the sound straddling the line between desperate and unhinged. It died off immediately when he heard something grumbling down the path. His head snapped towards the swampland he’d just escaped; the merms must have been waking up. With all that laughing and fit he had thrown over the stupid potato the scientist might have just woken them up himself. The sky grew red; Wilson knew had a few scant hours before the sun disappeared in its entirety. He couldn’t camp here tonight. The sound of the green-scaled monstrosities grew closer, though their approach was hidden by the spiked trees and cattails at the edge of the marsh. Wilson froze as he saw the first of them. It wasn’t much taller than the scientist, but what it lacked in height it made up for in sheer strength. The creature stood with a hunched back, the ridged fin across its back stood rigid. It bumbled forward, placing one of its meaty arms on the ground as it scanned the area. Its eyes lolled from one side to the other before settling on the scientist.

 

It took a few tentative steps his way, breathing in the man’s scent as he approached. Wilson reached for his spear; though his armor was cracked he was confident he could take just one. The wooden armor clacked against his chest as he sprung into action. Getting the drop on your enemy usually meant you had a fighting chance, but the merm had seen him first. There was no secrecy in this gambit. A man of science should have known better than to proceed with a frontal assault, but reason was far from his mind. He charged forward and thrust his spear forward into its shoulder, commanding a drowning howl of pain from the beast. Its milky eyes fixed upon the scientist; merms always seemed to have slow reaction times. That stun gave Wilson enough time to land a second swipe, this time across its thick midsection. As he reared back to take stab at the monster a third time, it grabbed his spear. The man’s grip tightened as his rust-colored eyes met the inhuman ones in front of him. The beast revealed its jagged and uneven teeth. Not all of them were sharp. No, if this thing was going to eat him alive Wilson wouldn’t have the comfort of easy tearing. This would take _effort_.

 

The merm bellowed into the air and the sound was a mockery of every drowning man’s death throes. Wilson kept hold of his spear, tugging against the beast who seemed to intent on disarming him. The monster’s warcry found a response from the depths of the swamp. First one, then a second, a third, a fifth, an eighth- the voices of these fish men rising together and roaring in response. How long until the cavalry arrived? The scientist paled. The wounded monster before him took the opportunity to land a punch solid enough to steak the air from Wilson’s lungs. He looked back at his pack- if he died here he would be back where he began. Back at the beginning with his back against the grass and cigar smoke in his lungs. No supplies. No food. No weapons. He would be back with Maxwell mocking him, looking at his once-dead body chiding _you don’t look so good._

 

No.

 

Wilson would _not_ go back. Not when he was so close to home. Not when he could feel his soft, velvet chair perched next to his furnace. He could see the cliffs and valleys of the mountains behind the house and smell the pine forest on his doorstep. He could see the thin road leading to town and the miles he’d have to walk - that he would gladly walk - just to sit in the presence of others milling about their day. He tried not to think about whether people were looking for him or not- what with living such an isolated life on the mountainside he doubted people thought too much about it.  But God, what Wilson wouldn’t give to hear a human voice again. What he wouldn’t give to see real human interaction, even if he were on the periphery of it. A cup of coffee. A purchased newspaper. A damned mugging that left him broken and bleeding so long as it meant he was home and someone was speaking to him. He couldn’t spend another day, another minute looking forward to _dying_ so he could at least hear the voice of another person for a matter of seconds. He wouldn’t let Maxwell take this from him again, not after he’d tricked him into giving it up before.

 

He ran away from the merm, stopping only briefly to stuff whatever he could back in his backpack. The scientist grabbed his divining rod- a strange device that looked a little like a radio on a stick- and he ran down the path. The sun drooped into the horizon as Wilson redoubled his efforts to escape. The merms were gaining on him and he wondered what would take him first- the monsters or whatever lived in the darkness when the night came. He was jarred from his panic by the sound of his divining rod playing… a song? _It’s never done **that** before_ , Wilson mused. He held the rod out and turned before finding the place where the song sounded the clearest, ignoring the foul stench of his pursuers in favor of finding a new direction to run in.

 

_“À la claire fontaine m’en allant promener_ _  
_

_J’ai trouvé l’eau si belle que je m’y suis baignée._

_Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai_ _  
_

_Sous les feuilles d’un chêne, je me suis fait sécher.  
_

_Sur la plus haute branche, un rossignol chantait._

_Il y a longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai_

_Chante, rossignol, chante, toi qui as le cœur gai._

_Tu as le cœur à rire… moi je l’ai à pleurer.”_

There wasn’t accompaniment to the song, just the breathing and cadence of someone who has gone through the lyrics dozens of times in one setting. That was the way all lullabies were; they were designed to be simple so someone could sing them over and over and over again. The tonal patterns rose and fell in gentle, relaxing waves. Wilson didn’t speak French, certainly not well enough to understand the song, but the singer relayed the mourning in the lyrics well enough. Wilson continued off the path, chasing the sound of a real human voice- even if it was a recorded one.

 

The sun continued its descent as the sky faded from orange to red, to the dusky pink-and-purple that insisted that the time was coming nigh. Wilson had lost enough time just absorbing a lullaby that the merms were almost able to grasp at his backpack. He barreled forward, barely noticing the change of scenery around him until he heard his feet touch marble flooring. The sound echoed in the cool air and the beasts abruptly stopped, unwilling to come closer. The voice on the radio was as clear as an actual person standing next to him.

 

The song stopped abruptly. “ _Vous ne pouvez rester ici, c'est dangereux.“_

 

The voice’s breathing was ragged, shallow. Wilson looked around himself in the darkening surroundings- a marbled floor with a grandiose statue of Maxwell in the middle and a path to another alcove. He dropped his pack and retrieved the half-burnt torch he’d managed to save. It sparked up quickly and allowed him to continue his exploration. He crept forward into the next alcove, divining rod held low at his side. Wilson could hear the baritone breathing on the other end, and though his voice had a softness to it he had been firm. It was nothing like Maxwell’s voice that had beckoned him into the Constant in the first place; this voice’s command had been pleading. Aching. There was humanity in that voice- something the king of this realm arguably divorced himself of once he took the throne.

 

“… hello?” Wilson called out, all the while creeping forward into the darkened room.

_“ **Partez.** Vous ne pouvez pas rester ici,”_ the voice begged through the divining rod.

“Where are you? I-there-there has to be a _reason_ for this, you led me here!”

_“Je vous ai conduit ici? Comment-”_ the voice sounded baffled. _“Comment pouvez-vous m’entendre?”_

 

He finally came upon his quarry- tall and then with a swath of red across its chest, just in time for his torch to die out. Just in time for him to lose the distinct impressions of the humanoid figure before him. The scientist scrambled to rectify the situation; the world around him was plunged into total darkness. He paled, and dropped to his knees. Wilson had become adept at starting campfires under duress, though he knew he only had a few scant moments to start it before _She_ struck. Maxwell had called her by name once, the monster that lived in the darkness. The thing Wilson had grown to fear more than Maxwell himself.

 

He had days upon days on end where he wouldn’t sleep and things would crawl along the ground and nights that his death was only staved off by a couple pinecones and desperation. Oh course, there were also nights where he hadn’t been fast enough. Nights where he couldn’t strike the flint fast enough and he was rendered helpless by a single strike from unseen monster in the dark. One to fell him, another to finish him. It only had to happen once for Wilson to fear nightfall, though the sensation had never stopped being novel. Each time his heart stopped beating it was abruptly started with a puff of smoke and daylight. It was brought back to reality with him crawling back to the world and being reminded- _Say pal, you don’t look so good_.

 

The shadows growled out their warning- the only courtesy she ever provided before striking. Whatever protests were coming from the divining rod were drowned out by the sound of Wilson’s heartbeat in his ears. He laid his last few logs to the ground, some grass as tinder and with dumb luck alone did the fire spark to life. Wilson added the remainder of his dead torch and a couple pinecones to get the fire right and properly running. In the renewed light he could see the figure. He was, in fact, tall with long legs and a large red overshirt. His face was white with rouged cheeks and black lips. Wilson covered his mouth, but it didn’t stop him from crying out in shock. He stumbled backwards.

 

The mime’s brows knit up and together while the corners of his mouth pulled inward. He shook his head and his hands went to reach out only to knock against something solid and silent. The mime spread his palms outward, placed them in front of him and _shoved_. The man stopped before his shoulders fell. He folded his arms low across his abdomen and leaned against one of the invisible walls. A sigh came across the divining rod’s speaker. Wilson was tense as he approached the other man.

 

“This-” the scientist turned about quickly “- this isn’t **funny** , Maxwell!” His voice shook at the edges and was uneven in pitch. The tenor’s voice hadn’t cracked like that since he was a thirteen-year-old boy. His attention snapped back to the other man. Wilson’s frame was taut, and he tried to hold himself straighter and stronger than his injuries would allow. The mime wasn’t stupid; he knew the man was hurt. Wilson spoke again, “what is this? Some kind of trap? Why-why didn’t she attack you? Why are you just _standing_ there? Say something!”

 

He was close to the lanky figure, and Wilson’s hand thrust forward to poke the man; he was greeted by a hollow _thunk_ while his hand stopped a few inches shy of actually touching the mime. Wilson’s brows shot up and he pulled his hand back immediately. The barrier shifted from clear to a faint purple before fading like a bruise back to its original state; “what in the name of science is this?” Wilson whispered, “this _is_ a trap, isn’t it?”

 

The mime nodded.

 

“I’m Wilson. Wilson Percival Higgsbury,” the scientist offered.

_“Wes,”_ he replied through the divining rod. Wes gestured to the device, _“qu’est-ce que c'est?”_

“I… um… I’m sorry, I don’t… speak French.”

_“What is that thing?”_ the mime clarified.

“Oh, this?” Wilson perked up, the corners of his mouth upturning as he held out the divining rod. It was an odd thing with a gnarled staff piece and a surprisingly sophisticated radio mechanism on top, “ _this_ is a diving rod. You see- I was looking for- well- you know a _traditional_ divining rod is used to find water- which, if you ask me, is just a silly piece of superstition because, I mean, _obviously_ a forked stick isn’t going to be able to find something but the idea really sparked my interest-"

 

Wes settled into a seated position with his back braced against the walls of his prison while a smile took root on his features. Wilson’s excitement was genuine; it provided more light and warmth than any camp fire could hope. It was so different than what he’d seen for all these years. Darkness. Cold. Hunger. How long had it been since he was locked away here? Did he even remember why he here? None of it mattered at that second if only because the fair-skinned man across from Wes was real and alive and present. Whatever Wilson had experienced in the Constant hadn’t diminished him.

 

The scientist sat down across from him, the staff still in hand and flailing as he gestured. He barreled forward “-but if you added a homing mechanism to it you could very easily use it to find all sorts of things! But of course I don’t particularly care to find _all_ sorts of things I just wanted-” Wilson fell silent just as abruptly as he’d started talking. His gaze fell to the divining rod as he caressed the outside edge of the detection mechanism; as quickly as he’d blossomed Wilson retreated again. An unexpected frost over springtime.

 

Wes knocked on the barrier, jolting Wilson from his brooding. The mime cocked his head to the side, brows pulled together and a thoughtful frown on his features; he placed his palm flat on the wall’s surface. Wilson let his fingers trace against the surface of where Wes’s palm rested, where he could almost touch but not quite.

 

“I just wanted to find a way home,” the small scientist admitted, “I thought I was close this time, but I found…”

_“Me,”_ Wes said, his thoughts broadcast more gently than the words themselves relayed.

“I don’t- I didn’t mean-“ Wilson put his hands up in surrender and shook his head “-no no no, that’s-that’s not a bad thing, I’m _glad_ I found you! The divining rod _is_ _supposed_ to find hidden things- not that you’re a _thing_ of course- but- you know what I mean.”

 

The scientist dropped his hands to his lap, shrugging and adjusting his awkward posture in hopes of being less awkward. No good.

 

_“How can it hear me?”_ Wes asked. His lips didn’t move, and for the first time Wilson seemed to really realize that the mime wasn’t truly speaking.

“I… uh… I don’t know? I suppose when I have time I could take it apart and see if maybe one of the components in the receiver mechanism got knocked loose or one of the pieces degraded. I _did_ drop it in the swamp- maybe it’s reacting to some of the gunk that got in it, or the frequency changed.”

_“And you invented that?”_ his tone sparked with the edges of wonder.

“Yeah,” Wilson’s tone matched the fall of his shoulders, “I don’t thing I’m going to win any big awards for making a mime-reading radio, though.”

_“I can’t remember the last time I’ve talked to another person,”_ Wes admitted.

 

Wilson looked up from his moping to catch Wes’s gaze. The mime hooked the collar of his undershirt under two fingers and pulled; across his throat was an almost unnatural scar. Wilson couldn’t get a very good look at it, and truthfully he didn’t want to; instead of focusing on a long healed wound, he looked back to Wes’s face. His eyes were the same green as meadow grass and his smile seemed warm, pleased. The scientist swallowed.

 

“Well,” he mused before returning that look. Somehow, smiling at Wes didn't seem so hard, “What do you want to talk about, Wes?”

_“Everything.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Ammoth, who helped me tidy up the French in this chapter and the next! You're a gem, and I'm forever grateful


	2. Snow White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Wilson sleeps, Wes finds himself faced with a familiar visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, but expect the next one to be up sooner as a result!

It was easy to talk to Wilson. Moreover, it was easy to get Wilson to _talk_. Mute or not, Wes had never actually been much of a conversationalist; he’d preferred listening to people. He liked their stories and their idiosyncrasies and triumphs; he liked the sheer humanness of others and their flaws. It was easy to fall into silence, and revel in the fact that for once it was voluntary. The scientist, on the other hand, seemed to be content to make up for all the time he had missed with another person by-

 

Talking. A _lot_.

 

“-and I’m actually starting to wonder at what point mysticism and scientific endeavors intersect because frankly all of this defies every current theory that has been respectable. Even the multiverse theory suggests that there wouldn’t be so much consistency between words but _here we are_ -“ Wilson gestured outward with his arms wide and his grin bright “-in a world with butterflies the size of my head and bunnies with horns.” A beat passed, “do they have jackalopes in France?”

Wes looked like the was about to reply- brows raised and hand poised in the _well, actually_ position- but Wilson dashed forward with all the confidence of a man leading a cavalry charge.

“I’m pretty sure they don’t. I don’t think they have them in the United States, either; most of the one’s I’d seen were gaffes in a sideshow and you could tell because the stitching across the head at the top wasn’t clean enough to relay actual horns but now I’m starting to really think about those Fiji mermaid skeletons I’ve seen, or _really_ any of those people that insist that they’ve seen sasquatch… frankly, I’m surprised that I’ve never seen sasquatch here. But I did find a mime.”

 

Wes gave him a flat look.

 

“In a box.”

 

Wes gave Wilson an even flatter look.

 

“In the middle of a wretched hellhole that even the merms won’t walk into despite the fact that it’s _really_  rather lovely in here,” Wilson continued on. He met Wes’s gaze and flashed the trapped man an awkward smile before looking at the ground, “… you have to admit, wandering around in the wilderness thinking you’re going to die a horrible death and then finding a mime _literally_ stuck in a box is really funny in a completely not-funny way.”

 

Wilson kept his gaze firmly not on the mime, his cheeks bright and burning.  _Oh sweet science, Wilson, why did you say that?_  The man adjusted the collar of his shirt before running a hand through his hair. It immediately sprang back in whatever position it had been in previously; that awkward smile of his seemed more like a grimace at that point. _Congratulations, you have officially offended the first and only person you have seen in this world that isn't actively trying to kill you!_ Wilson's thoughts chided. His attention was only pulled up when he heard a reply from the divining rod.

 

"Aaaaaaanyway," Wilson's voice was like a release valve, punctuated with the sort of awkward laughter that only came when you were trying to dig yourself out of a hole so deep you couldn't see the sky from. He trudged to his pack and retrieved a beaten straw roll- one of the few things he’d remembered to save- and settled down at the edge of the fire, “I’m going to get some sleep; we must be close to dawn by now, so it couldn’t hurt. Goodnight, Wes.”

 _“Bonne nuit, Wilson,”_ the mime replied, warmth at the edges of his tone. There was only enough room to stand and to stretch his arms but never enough to truly lay down in the little box he’d ruefully called home. The grass was soft and perpetually green; it was a comfort he would take. Nevertheless, he settled down and took his watch for the night.

 

There is an intimacy in watching another person sleep, something that seemed almost like voyeurism in Wes’s mind even when the person you were watching wasn’t a stranger. Despite Wilson’s near constant stream of thought he was still a stranger; he’s spoken volumes but said very little about who he was. What he did know came in details; Wilson had a red, high-backed chair in his lab that was made of beaten velvet and smelled like pine smoke. He fell asleep in it more than he slept in his own bed. He had a bicycle and a cart that he rode into town when he needed to make a trip to town that would end in having more than an arm full of things; he didn’t go to town often. He didn’t know how to dance. It was the little things that came from Wilson in wistful bursts or quiet asides that Wes held onto. The things the little scientist bowled over were the ones that stuck out.

 

The way Wilson slept accentuated his size, curled half into himself on his side with his arms tucked protectively around his ribs. He whimpered as his eyes flickered beneath his lids; the scientist pulled his hands close to his head. The sound from his throat high and keening though propriety insisted that he keep his misery to himself. It wasn’t a conscious decision, of course. Terror is a stock pot simmering away until there was nothing left. It would break its vessel willingly if left untended, but it never began at a rolling boil. It began like this- with clenched fists and aching moans that rob us of the very things that would help the fear abate. “Shhhh, shh-shhh,” Wes managed. It was more of a breath than an actual sound, and more of an effort than Wes had exerted in some time.

 

“ _À la claire fontaine m’en allant promener. J’ai trouvé l’eau si belle que je m’y suis baignée-“_ Wes thought through the lullaby again, something he’d thought over and over again during his time here. What else does one do when someone else is having a nightmare? You sing to them; you find something soothing and you hold it close until you can stave off the madness. Wes knew there was nothing he could do for Wilson; even if he were free there was nothing he could do to control what Hells the other man dreamt of. The smaller man reached for source of the sound; the mime pulled away from the wall as his brows rose and surprise blossomed on his features. Wilson hadn’t reached for the divining rod, he moved towards _him_. To Wes. Wilson’s fingertips pressed against the wall between them; the mime took the opportunity to study the scientist sleeping next to him.

 

He had sharp features when he was awake, though sleep did wonders to soften a person. Wilson had an angular jaw that was already starting to show signs of needing a shave and a Roman nose. It reminded Wes of a statue he’d seen long before he’d come here: the stolen treasures of antiquity. It was an entire gallery filled to the brim with statues brought from the Ottoman Empire and the marble work was what he remembered most. Some of those statues had been stolen from Italy before, again, being stolen away to a gallery in France. The scientist was pale and though people associate marble with chiseled features Wes knew better. Of all stone, marble was preferable because it was soft and of all seemingly unbreakable things, marble was the most malleable. Wilson's sharpest features did nothing to diminish his softness. His eyelashes were thick; his lips looked soft. Tentative, Wes’s fingers dropped to meet those of the sleeping scientist. He smiled.

 

“You know, friend, I never realized you have such a _heavenly_ singing voice."

 

That smile dropped from Wes’s face immediately when he saw the burning cherry of a cigar in the darkness. He glowered at the demon he knew was waiting in the darkness, and Wes fell into that familiar silence that had plagued him for who-knew how many years. Maxwell knew that stillness in him because a lesser man would mistake his prisoner for being still with fear; it would be a grave mistake to underestimate Wes. Maxwell didn’t make the same mistake twice, nor did he like to leave evidence of the first misstep.

 

“Had,” Maxwell took a long drag off his cigar, bathing him in an orange glow. The plumes of smoke ventured into the dimming campfire, “my apologies.”

 _“To what do I owe the pleasure, your **highness** ,”_ Wes’s thoughts were punctuated by an edged smile and an exaggerated bow

“Ah, and here I was worried your wit had started to dull.”

_“I’ve had time to work my clever rapport lately.”_

 

The demon stepped forward into the light, the shadows he cast were long and accentuated his already impressive height. Maxwell seemed to tower over others in both personal presence and stature; everything about him was tailored to fit the air only befitting a being of both cruelty and temptation. One could have called him dignified, regal even, if they had not known what a monster he truly was. What a monster he had _become_. He reached into his coat, and in one gloved hand he retrieved a strange metal contraption. Wes cocked his head to the side and he let confusion ride across his features openly. It looked like… a potato? Who on earth would make a metal potato?

 

“It would appear,” Maxwell started, “that when I let our pal come to this rotten little island I forgot one of the pieces necessary to travel to the next one. It would have been nice to watch him scramble through every inch of this place to find it, but…” the British man flicked the ash off his cigar, a displeased growl rumbling in his chest. He knelt next to the dreaming scientist, “somehow even when you’re in a box you manage to ruin things. To think, I kept you safe here- no _real_ hunger-”

 _“-what do you want?“_ Wes interjected.

“-No _real_ pain,” Maxwell was lost in his own thoughts _._ He put down the metal device in favor of freeing up a hand. His long, gloved fingers caressed Wilson’s cheek as he slept, “though I’m certain I could change that.”

 _“Ne le touche-pas!”_ He sprung forward, his shoulder hitting the wall of the invisible prison. The surface crackled with violet light though still it did not yield. Maxwell was undeterred. _“Wilson- réveillez-vous! Réveillez-vous, bon sang, **please** Wilson!”_

The king looked up from his reverie, a winter smile on his lips. Cold. Unforgiving. “Such a becoming look for you, Wes. Now, I suggest that you convince Snow White to continue along his merry way and to go to the next world or else you’ll get to see how long it takes for scientists to become fertilizer.”

 

Wes looked away, his fists clenched to keep his hands from shaking.

 

“Oh, and Wes?” Maxwell waited until he had the other man’s undivided attention before flippantly reaching for one of the dials on the divining rod. “Don’t spoil the surprise for him.”

 

The knob cracked off in Maxwell’s hand; the night air filled with static.


	3. Changing protocol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When faced with an army of clockwork chess pieces, Wilson has to get creative in order to make it through the fight. Will this finally be the piece that frees Wes from his prison?

Morning came more quickly than Wilson would have liked it to. In those early wakeful moments, he could wrap himself in mundane fantasies; it was useless to imagine opulent things like overwhelming wealth and fame. He hadn’t wanted them before he’d come to the Constant and he certainly didn’t want them now. If he could actually manage to find some way to prove some of the strange things he’d seen here, Wilson was certain he’d be in line for a Nobel prize. _Or a single room at an asylum_. On bad days he imagined what it would be like to be in an asylum instead of here; the scientist supposed that padded walls would be nice- or at least soft. He could settle for soft. Wilson rolled onto his stomach and groaned, his spine making a series of displeased pops when he moved.

 

He missed sleeping in.

 

Bleary-eyed, he began the morning routine of gathering up his bed roll and breaking down camp. He hadn’t kept anything standing for long over the last few months and the entire procedure could be done while tampering out those last few moments of restfulness. Wilson’s morning routine, however, did not factor in the presence of another person; suddenly, packing away his things felt more like trying to slink away unnoticed like some cad taking his leave after having taken his liberties. The scientist’s face flushed immediately, “oh! Uh, good morning- I… uhmn, well, I supposed I should get started for the day. Find breakfast, make breakfast, do… breakfast… things. Would you like-“ he swallowed. Wes looked away from Wilson, exhaling a harsh breath.

 

“Oh,” the scientist reached out to the barrier again, giving it an absent tap, “right… Stars, you must be hungry, and here I am talking about how I’m going to go hunt for breakfast and- I apologize that was _incredibly_ inconsiderate of me and… uh… I suppose I can work on begging your forgiveness over lunch?” The smaller man offered the other a smile, lopsided and genial. The air between them was silent, and the mime did not move from his seated position; Wilson suddenly seemed to find something interesting on the edge of his shirt. The unpleasant taste of last night’s tentacle-surprise dinner lingered on his tongue; Wilson cleared his throat, “aaaaaaaanyway I’m gonna go work on finding some way to get us properly acquainted. It seems wrong to have not shaken your hand yet, and I feel as though we can’t be properly acquainted otherwise and I’d rather like to _make_ your acquaintance…”

 

Wes didn’t respond.

 

“… I’m gonna go now.”

 

Wilson made a hasty retreat into the wilderness, hands affixed to the straps of his backpack and gaze on the horizon. _Ohhh, he is definitely mad at you_ , he thought, _why wouldn’t Wes be? You made a crack about his perpetual imprisonment at the hands of a psychotic demon king. Wouldn’t **you** be a little upset about that?_ Wilson nodded to himself to answer that wordless voice in his head that was aware enough to remind him of the mistakes he makes when his mouth just doesn’t have the good sense to shut itself. Were it not for that voice, Wilson presumed he wouldn’t live in a cottage in the woods by choice. He’d live there because villagers would have driven him there with torches and pitchforks chanting a litany of social faux pas.

 

The scientist went on to gathering the basic supplies to make it through the night should he have to bed down again for the night. It was, for lack of better wording, boring as peeling wallpaper. Sure, there were some interesting aspects to it, but it was the same wall with every strip peeled away. By the time Wilson had passed the statue of Maxwell for the fifth time, he concluded he was getting pretty damned tired of that wallpaper. He looked up at the monument; it was just like Maxwell to tower over those around him. His arms spread wide and laughing some triumph to the sky. He was mocking them; even when the king didn’t make an appearance he made certain to let the pawns on the board know where they stood.  “I always hated these things,” he muttered to himself. Wilson trudged to his little makeshift camp in front of Wes’s prison and retrieved his pickaxe. “I’ll be right back, Wes, I think it’s time to remove some pieces from the board.”

 

The mime watched as his companion walked away grumbling to himself. Wilson seemed the type who could amuse himself easily enough, though seeing him approach the statue with a pickaxe left an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. The scientist gripped the tool tight in his hands and he took a hearty swing; the motion was fully committed and strong. Wilson was more sturdy than he looked, a fact which caused Wes’s features to brighten for a moment before he remembered the warning from last night. It brought back images of the other man sleeping so peacefully while Maxwell caressed his cheek like he’d actually cared for the person in front of him; the gesture had been a mockery of tenderness. _No real pain_ , the words echoed, _though I’m certain I could change that._ Wes had tried to ignore Wilson that morning, tried to give him the cold shoulder in hopes that he would lose interest and go away and leave him alone to rot in his little box but every stumbling attempt at courtesy and good will left Wes with a tightness in his chest he hadn’t felt in some time. All he could do was watch and hope that, maybe, Wilson would go away. Maybe, Wilson would have the good sense to _run._

 

Wilson took another swing at the statue, soon finding his pickaxe stuck in the marble in front of him. The aura around the statue rippled a familiar violet. _Like the box_ , he thought. Wilson planted a foot on the statue and tugged to release his tool from its grip. This time, he trained his eyes on where his companion sat trapped. He took another swing at the statue and when the blow connected with Maxell’s statue the wall in front of Wes crackled like a Telsa coil. “This was never a trap for _me_ ,” the scientist reeled from his sudden discovery.

 

“Okay, Higgsbury, think: this has to be some kind of sort of energy barrier,” he took another swing at the statue, satisfaction washing over him as the monolith began to crumble, “and it stands to r-reason that it isn’t self-sustaining so… something… has to be fueling it, right? Of course right. What fuels _everything_ in this place?”

 

_Nightmares._

 

The pickaxe struck the statue a final time before the marble crackled that same almost electrical energy he had witnessed earlier from Wes’s box. Wilson swallowed, backing away from the statue before his back pressed against something large and metal. He could feel it the subtle, musical wheeze of its breathing; he could feel the charged crackle of bound lightning against his skin. There was an eerie hum and a sudden spark of light that Wilson narrowly avoided through luck alone. When he turned he had time to survey what it was that he was actually dealing with.

 

Even the smallest of the chess pieces stood head-and-shoulders above Wilson. The scientist took a quick inventory of his opponents: two knights, a rook, and a bishop. He could care less about the knights, though they were in their own ways impressive. Their eyes a glowing white shielded by amber glass, he could admire how well-crafted they were. Indeed it was something that he admired and his mind wandered to times that he had needed to scavenge pieces from the creatures. _Were_ they creatures? They were nothing more than machines who followed rules, protocols, and had the limitations of their maker’s capacity and imagination. The knights weren’t as adept at running as they would seem, though they were maneuverable. These brass-and-copper monstrosities were, at their core, chess pieces; they behaved as such. That was what kept Wilson in the game longer than he had any right to be. There were rules. Knights would stay close; bishops and rooks would move as they pleased since their strengths did not require necessarily staying on top of a person.

 

Like with most games, the pieces had a rudimentary knowledge of how to work together when laid out in the right way. The knight bobbed forward, striking out with its head and knocking Wilson off balance. He let out a sharp cry, stumbling to the side. His eyes widened as he found himself face-to-face with a behemoth of a battering ram no more than a few yards away. He was stunned enough that his movement speed wouldn’t be fast enough to get out of the way and as the rook charged all Wilson could think to do was use his inferior size as an advantage and let the monster pass over him. The scientist curled tightly into a ball, waiting for the sound of either his pelvis being crushed or his ribcage folding in on itself. He was still recovering from yesterday; being jostled around too fiercely threatened to reopen where the tentacle spikes had drug across his body.

 

Instead, he was greeted with the metal-on-metal and the sound of a transistor popping. Wilson had broken enough prototypes of electrical doodads and pieces in his refrigeration units to know what it sounds like when something vital breaks. The rook continued along its path, chugging away like a model T without a driver completely oblivious to the fact that it had not actually trampled its target. Wilson pushed himself back to his feet and took a quick survey of what stood around him. One of the knights had been knocked to its side and wheezed that broken bellows-sound they all seemed to make when they moved.

 

The bishop lay sparking on the ground, not useless but certainly not near as dangerous as it would be otherwise. The scientist’s eyes brightened, and a smile blossomed on his features. It was a terrible time to be wrought with inspiration, but true discovery and progress doesn’t wait for a scientist to be somewhere safe and comfortable. He made a dash for the fallen clockwork monster, aware that he didn’t have much time to get to a piece of cover to start his work before the rook would be repositioning and charging again. Wilson grabbed the bishop by the leg and surveyed his surroundings to see if there was any cover he could take in order to test his theory.

 

His eyes locked on Wes and the half-glowing walls surrounding him. “Perfect,” Wilson said to himself. He held tight to the bishop’s leg and made a run for shelter. It wasn’t nearly as heavy as the scientist was expecting, or perhaps the marble flooring was forgiving enough that he could pull it across with ease. The bishop’s chasse scraped across the marble and its body thrashed as though it expected itself to still be upright and moving. He could still hear the knights hopping along to catch up with him though their small, awkward legs let them do little more than hop along after him. _Of course they would hop_ , Wilson thought, _knights aren’t supposed to travel huge distances, they’re supposed to maneuver in tight spaces_.

 

“Wes!” he called out, turning his attention over his shoulder and away from the brewing conflict, “how-how _sturdy_ do you think that wall is?”

The mime was on his feet, and he paced the outside perimeter of his prison. Wes held his arms out wide, spread full and he nodded emphatically. His expression was contorted to a thoughtful-but-still concerned frown.

“So, it’s like a diamond on the Mohs scale?”

Wes cocked his head to the side, brows knit together.

“Well,” Wilson continued dragging along the bishop, turning his attention back to the soon-to-be-charging rook. He sounded winded already, “on the Mohs scale-it’s-uh… it’s a scale to determine the hardness of rocks? It’s… one to ten. High being softest and low being hardest?” He dropped the bishop’s leg and shook his head, “wait, no, that’s not right, it’s the opposite- anyway, it’s-“

Wes threw his hands out in front of him, gesturing with open palms directly at the now-charging rook and a look that sat somewhere between exasperation and horror. His hands went to Wilson. Rook. Wilson. Rook. Wilson.

“What-“his attention turned “- _oh!_ Well!” Wilson grabbed the bishop’s leg again and gave it a hard yank to the side to get out of the way of the charge, “diamonds are hard but brittle so-and- I’ll explain later!”

The mime slapped his hands over his face, shoulders falling and posture curving. If Wes could have groaned at Wilson, he would have.

 

The rook barreled into the wall keeping Wes from the outside world. The scientist continued his break for the other side of the box, hauling the twitching corpse of the bishop behind him; he wasn’t going to have a lot of time to do this. He hoped that the rook’s programming was simple enough to keep it from understanding that it was running into an invisible wall. If Wilson could keep it charging into an impenetrable force he could buy himself enough time to enact his plan. Finally, he reached the other side of the forcefield, heart pounding loud in his ears.

 

Wilson flipped the bishop onto its stomach, face pointing away from him in case it still had some kind of charge left in it. _Stars, what I wouldn’t give for real tools right now,_ he thought. The man put one foot on the upper part of the body and tugged at the metal cape, its ragged and broken edges cutting into his palms. Wilson bit his lower lip and with a fair bit of prying he had enough room to access the inner workings of the clockwork monster. The inside was a mess of loosened gears and misconnected wires, but thankfully the only thing that was well and truly broken inside was a cracked gemstone. His gaze fell squarely on the blue backpack not twenty feet away.

 

He had to get there; Wilson knew that he had to swap out the gemstones and reconnect the electrical pieces in order to get this thing running again. His mind flashed to all those times at camp where he’d dragged damaged clockwork pieces back to tinker with him. Knights were the safest; if something went wrong he knew their movements well enough that he could easily dispatch the reanimated beast. His theory was simple: if you repair the monster, you can change its existing protocols and instructions to suit your needs. They were machines, afterall. Machines held no malice. They held no prejudice. They only did what they were told.

 

The only time he’d brought a bishop back to camp had been disastrous. He’d made a miscalculation and his guts ached from the memory of the explosion; he’d been picking pieces of broken gears out of his hide for longer than he’d cared to think. It was by luck alone that the experience hadn’t killed him, but it hadn’t been enough to deter Wilson P. Higgsbury. Scientific progress wasn’t made without some type of risk. The man forced himself back to reality; he needed to get his backpack and he needed to buy himself some time.

 

Wilson made another run for the outside world, away from the relative safety of his cover. His heart was loud in his ears and adrenaline was the only thing keeping him from reeling from the blow he’d suffered earlier. He swiped the strap of his pack and kept running. The chess pieces bobbed along to try and catch up with him. Wilson headed to the second statue of Maxwell standing in the area; he knew these were the key to getting Wes out of the box. Destroy the shock absorbers for those diamond walls and their brittle nature would make them easy to break through with the right kind of pressure.

 

You know, the kind of pressure that comes when a model T goes crashing into a brick wall.

 

He looked behind him to make certain that he was, in fact, being followed. The scientist was struggling for breath, and he took the moment of standing still as respite. He waited at the entrance to the next chamber and lined himself perfectly with the statue. His mouth was dry, and his ears were ringing. The man stared down the beast in the distance, its eyes the same color amber as the dome atop his fallen bishop. Wilson waited as he heard it gaining energy, building its reserves before it could transfer potential to kinetic.

 

The rook charged.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank all of the people who helped me with this fic so far, and a special thanks to Memime who I completely blame for inspiring me to write this. 
> 
> If anyone ever finds any grammatical errors or whatnot, please let me know so I can fix it! I will be forever grateful!


	4. Changing Protocol, pt. 2

Wilson’s grip tightened on the straps of his backpack; he couldn’t afford for anything to break its momentum. He knew it would have to hit the statue at full force to topple it. He knew full well what would happen once it did, too. Wilson would have more clockwork chess pieces to contend with, yes, but he suspected that he’d have a second person at his side to deal with this. Once the statues were gone, Wes and Wilson could run.

 

He was unaware of every string and complication associated with this particular rescue, but when did anyone but the great Maxwell know where the moving pieces were?

 

The rusty metal monster plowed forward, and the scientist waited until the last possible moment before he dove out of the way. The entrance to the next chamber was small enough that he knew it would be a crowded fit once the other clockwork chess pieces sprung to life, and he counted on their confusion allowing him time to work; perhaps their bumbling programming would take most of the work out of it for Wilson. He let his shoulders sag in relief when he heard stone hitting the ground and shattering from the force. The man’s reverie was short-lived when he realized he still had to get that bishop up and functioning. His legs ached from all his running, but he knew he could only rest when the danger had finally subsided. He finally crouched back behind the box holding Wes, throwing his backpack off his shoulders and digging through to find the one purple gem he’d managed to find while he was here. “Like I was saying, Wes,” he panted, “diamonds are hard, but they’re brittle… because of the strength of the covalent bonds making them up. They can’t take a hard enough hit without cracking; those statues are-are… like… otherworldly shock absorbers. If we get rid of them? A few good, solid hits should take care of those walls. Or they won’t… and… we’re back to-to where we started.”

 

Wes watched as the man worked; his own fascination with the task overtaking him long enough to forget the danger. All the while during his explanation, Wilson was elbow deep in the clockwork bishop. The scientist was undeterred by the world around him and seemed completely engrossed in his task; no wonder he’d almost been run over by that rook. He carefully detached the wires rooting the damaged gemstone in place. He wasn’t ready to replace it just yet, and instead took his time in re-tightening the screws and bolts holding the bishop’s gears in the correct position. His touch was as delicate as it was precise. Wilson bit his lower lip absently. Metal crunching in the distance served as little more than background noise for him; a meteor shower could have been background noise at this point. He was still hurt from the previous night’s encounters and knew that if this didn’t work he wouldn’t be walking away from it. The scientist retrieved the replacement gem from his pack; he held his breath as he put the final pieces back into place to reattach the bishops power source.

 

Wilson could hear the blood coursing loud through his veins. He could hear his heart pounding against his bruised ribcage. The gears started to slowly tick in place. The man swallowed as the bishop struggled to its feet; he could hear it beginning to charge and come to life and see the violet lights sparking in its dome. The scientist and the mime waited; while Wilson wore his hopefulness openly Wes was struck by how utterly helpless he was at this juncture and how true Maxwell’s warning had seemed. This _thing_ was going to kill the scientist, and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t look away.

 

The machine turned to face Wilson, “bishop E-seven waiting instructions.”

 

Wilson collapsed back onto the ground and let out a triumphant laugh, “stars and atoms, it works! It-it actually worked this time, Wes!” He pushed himself back up into a sitting position. His whole body trembled, “I can’t… I can’t believe it finally worked.” He straightened himself, forcing his voice to take on a more confident and authoritative tone, “bishop E-seven, eliminate all existing automatons on the current board. Use extreme measures as necessary.”

 

The bishop toddled off towards the other chess pieces, a mere half of them standing from their prior entanglements. Wilson wasted no time in amassing the wood he’d chopped for fire and whatever rope he had available. They would need armor. Wes would need a weapon. They would need some guarantee this wouldn’t be their only trip together, and Wilson was the one intent on providing that. He struggled for breath, “okay-okay… we… We need to run once the board is clear. I-I don’t know what else is out there but we should be able to make it a couple days easily. Once-once I find that stupid potato thing we can get out of here.”

 

Wes gestured to the ground; near the broken divining rod lay the very trinket Wilson had been searching for. His laughter was like a release valve for the tension riding through his frame. “I guess-I-I guess it had to have been in my pack the whole time?” the scientist offered. Wes offered a weak smile. How could he tell him that Maxwell had been here? That he’d warned against this very thing? He could blame himself for not doing more and ignore the fact that he was incapable of doing anything other than what he had. Wes hated that so much of this was beyond his reach. Wilson, for his part, seemed content to take the smile at face value. He shoved it back into his pack with the other components to the teleportation mechanism. “Looks like we won’t have to worry for too long after all.”

 

Donning his log suit and readying his spear, Wilson straightened himself and took the opportunity to finally let his heart rate begin to settle. He watched as the pieces fumbled and fell with a degree of pride- maybe he really was going to walk away from this. Maybe he wouldn’t be thrown back to the beginning. Wilson could already imagine the warmth of his fireplace and the smell of the pines outside of his house; he could feel the crushed velvet beneath his arms as he drifted off to sleep. For once, thinking about going home didn’t flay every exposed nerve he had. For once, it was the comfort he truly wanted it to be.

 

His reverie was short-lived.

 

There was that bellows breathing again, the hum of electricity, and the revving of a steam engine motor. He blanched; they weren’t done. They just kept _coming_. Two bishops. One knight. One rook. It was just one rook; the two bishops were what would be the real problem. “E-seven!” Wilson called out, his voice riddled with panic, “update parameters to reflect current board!”

 

The damaged bishop was in utter disrepair. Its dome was cracked and cape shredded to metal pieces; still, it obeyed its protocols and began its approach. Wilson tried to ignore it as he began his careful maneuvering yet again to try and get the mobile battering ram-of-a-rook to do his dirty work. It took careful planning, which was something Wilson didn’t have the time for at that moment. As he lined up his shot, his back was to the other clockwork pieces. He didn’t notice the electrical charge headed his way until it was too close to truly avoid. When Wilson screamed he sounded like a trumpet blown too hard- the sound was strident and sharp. It took everything he had to keep his feet beneath him. The rook in front of him began its charge; at least from that blow Wilson knew his aim had been true and one of the remaining bishops had stood almost directly behind him. The scientist dove out of the way, turning his head just in time to see the impact. _Perfect_ , he thought. Wilson smiled.

 

E-seven clumsily hopped along towards the other bishop, whose own programming had no parameters for what to do should another clockwork chess piece prove to be hostile. It bumbled forward, humming an eerie whine as it approached. The bishop shook as its power cells began to overload. It programming had been simple enough- Wilson had done a good job in giving thorough instructions. The board would be cleared; it would use extreme measures as necessary. The reprogrammed bishop stood close to the other, exploding in a shower of sparks and vibrant violet arcs, the two reduced to nothing but a pile of broken cogs and gem dust.

 

The scientist was busy trying to maneuver himself around a knight, desperate to keep it away from him just long enough to line up the next shot. The impact was solid, sending metal shrapnel flying; it only left the scientist and the rook standing. He’d have to fight it alone, now. He swallowed and charged it from the side, his spear taking a swipe against its thick, plated hide. It was practically a tank and the flint left scathes and sparks as it connected though it seemed to do little good. _There must be a weaker place to hit,_ he thought. Truthfully, when he usually ran into these pieces he avoided them. More trouble than they were worth. He looked at the moving plates, knowing that it didn’t run like a true animal, but rather, with its legs seemingly hidden under its bulky frame. He knew the images it tried to invoke, but its application reminded Wilson more of an armadillo than a rhinoceros.

 

He thought back to earlier, how he had narrowly avoided being trampled. _If I can get under it,_ he didn’t let himself finish the thought, instead leaping forward to take the opportunity. The scientist made a break for Wes’s current prison- the barrier must have been incredibly brittle at this point. If he could get the rook it hit it, maybe it would crack. They kept running, even when they hit things and if he could lure it to the wall? Well, what a lovely time to try a new experiment.

 

Wilson stood a few yards from the box, his spear gripped tightly in his hand. There was no timing this; he would simply have to try and avoid taking the hit to get under the clockwork chess piece. His breathing was a forced calm, and his body still hurt from all the exertion and the work he had put forth earlier but he had confidence in the trick he was ready to pull. The rook charged him, and Wilson backed away enough and braced for impact. The blow was hard enough to knock the wind out of him, and were it not for the wooden armor strapped across his frame. He fell to the ground, looking up at the pinned monster as it uselessly continued to charge forward.

 

From that angle he could see all the connections and the moving parts and the whirring gears. He positioned his spear as best he could and jabbed upward into the rook’s under carriage. Wilson rolled to one side, using his bodyweight to maneuver his spear through the unforgiving clockwork mess. Wires snapped and gears lost their teeth. That was the thing with clockwork pieces, once you broke a couple of the parts the entire system would shut down. The world was out of focus from the hit he’d just taken. Wilson felt a wave of nausea wash over him as his limbs felt uncoordinated.

 

Wes pushed hard against the walls in front of him, noting the solid violet crack in the wall. This… was this real? Was it happening? He renewed his efforts to break through, knowing that he needed to help the smaller scientist who was hammering away at the beast on top of him. Vital systems on the rook seemed to fail; it body shook and it let out a sputtering noise.

 

The rook reared upward and let out a rumbling groan as its body began to shake. He was so close, he just needed one more hit- he knew he could finish this. Just as Wilson’s bloodied hand reached for the last bundle of wires the rook came crashing down on him, laying all of its massive force on the scientist and slamming him to the ground. The smaller man shrieked, though his hand stayed tight against the wires. He gave one last, solid yank; metal crashed and the clockwork beast fell. 

 

Wes couldn't see Wilson under the pile of rubble. It was silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to PuppyGamerYT for catching some of the typos/grammatical mistakes in this chapter!


	5. Nightengale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wes tries to come up with a solution to help his companion, but will the scientist make it through the night? Can Wilson really trust Wes, or is it just wishful thinking?

Wes looked at the pile of rubble just outside of his reach. He didn’t care about the crack in his cage nor did he care about whether the gambit had worked; Wes cared about how he couldn’t hear Wilson under the hunks of metal. In the short time that he had been able to observe the man, Wilson Higgsbury had proven himself to be a ball of perpetual sound. He’d even taken the time during a very dangerous situation to explain some geological concept that-

 

Wait.

 

The man’s attention snapped immediately to the growing crack in his prison; he elbowed the wall, only to watch while the violet crack spread out like there was some unspoken race to reach the perimeter. Diamonds were hard, but their strength made them brittle; Wilson had seemed convinced that the same principle applied to Wes's prison. One blow turned into two, then three, then five and the cracks grew more and more intricate until one final blow sent the whole thing shattering downward. Without the anchoring points there was nothing to keep the whole thing from toppling after a well-placed hit; the mime ducked in order to avoid being peppered with whatever it was that made up the box. Wilson had been right. The wall’s shards seemed to dissolve, leaving little more than specks of solid shadow on the ground before they too disappeared. The fresh air burned Wes’s lungs but it was a burn he had never been more relieved to feel. His reverie was short lived.

 

Broken or not the rook was still imposing, and he wasn’t sure how to begin. Wes put his hands on one of the side panels and yanked; it came off with a protest and left the creature’s jaw hanging precariously from its other hinge. The beast was dominated by its large head and larger mouth and while it was not near as jarring as some of the things roaming the Constant its presence still had Wes on edge. He expected its glassy eyes to charge back to life and for its internal workings to whir in preparation to attack. He couldn’t hear anything, though. No sound of the monster potentially gaining its second wind but, more importantly, he couldn’t hear the scientist trapped underneath. Freeing the jaw allowed him to get a grip on the second part of the carapace and the mime pulled that as far as he could. 

 

Wes crouched to get a better look inside of the rook. He had never thought of what the insides of one of these things looked like, and he was shocked to find that it was not the solid metal monstrosity he’d thought it was. No, gears were torn off and pieces had fallen to the wayside. The inside was mostly engine pieces and struts and cushioning to absorb whatever happened when it barreled into something like the high-powered battering ram it was. The details of this weren’t so much lost on the mime as they were rendered unimportant. Each movement and thrown piece grew more feverish as each thrown piece garnered more and more blood on his gloved hands. The moments it took to reach this point felt longer than the time he’d spent imprisoned. Reaching in to try and get a grip on a large section of metal, his hand bumped against something. Wes withdrew his grasp immediately onto to pull off his gloves with haste. He reached in a second time, this time noticing the texture of a human palm. It was cold, clammy even. The man’s expression went blank, eyes closed hard and his jaw went slack. He couldn’t pull his hand away from the one trapped beneath the rook; he _wouldn’t_ pull away.

 

Wilson’s fingers twitched beneath Wes’s hand, and the first sign of his breathing came in a weak, wet cough that was muffled under all the metal. The mime continued his digging with renewed vigor while his heart drummed hard against his rib cage playing some long-forgotten song of war and triumph. Piece after piece was pried away as the daylight slowly began sinking away into nothingness; they wouldn’t be afforded the comforts of sunshine to continue the work. The inside of the rook felt more like some man-made cave; in the dying light, Wes could barely see the scientist in front of him.

 

Through sheer dumb luck Wilson hadn’t been crushed by the falling engine components but his chest plate was destroyed. The mime couldn’t make out the whole of the scientist’s injuries, and he would need space to be able to treat him. As cautiously as he could, the man slipped an arm under Wilson; the wounded scientist’s already shallow breathing grew rapid and tense as the other man attempted to pick him up. Wilson was light- a fact Wes considered to be a small blessing- but his frame did feel sturdy. As evidence had proven, it took more than a stiff wind to knock the scientist down. This, though? This had been more of a tempest than a mere breeze; few people could walk away from this sort of assault unscathed and Wilson Higgsbury was no exception.

 

Wes assessed the unconscious figure before him. Wilson looked awful. A steady of trickle of blood came from his broken nose; he coughed, and that half-choking sound brought with it more of the same. His breast plate had been reduced to nothing more than jagged chunks of wood and though it may have protected him from the worst of the blows he’d received it was doing more of a disservice to Wilson now than anything. Wes rolled him to one side to keep him from drowning himself, but also to give him more access to the broken armor. He was wary of what he would find once he removed the log suit but the situation would be worse if he simply left it. The rope fastenings gave way; Wes’s stomach sank.

 

The inside of the log suit looked more like finished cherry wood than pine, the planks in some places had absorbed enough blood that it almost felt like it was covered in sap. The wound in Wilson’s side from the previous night had re-opened and blossomed into something vibrant; the color left a deep scarlet in contrast to the jewel-toned reds of his waistcoat. His shirt was ruined. Though he had removed the armor, pieces of wood and metal had still found their way to stay lodged into his skin. The places that hadn’t been covered were peppered with scratches and rips from where metal pieces had rained down on the scientist. The only color on his pallid skin came from where Wes’s bloodied fingers touched; while the sight itself was abysmal, Wes knew it to be more dire than it truly seemed.

 

He’d seen this fight; however bad the damage was outside Wes knew that internally it had to be much, much worse.

 

Wilson’s eyes fluttered open; his wakefulness was punctuated with a groan and an attempt to struggle into a sitting position. That groan turned into something sharp and the gore picked up the warmer notes in his irises. It was a terrible way to pick up one of the smaller man's more favorable features. 

 

“You’re warm,” Wilson said, his pale lips curved up into something almost content, “I… it’s… nice.”

 

The mime tried to flash the other man a smile, though the expression seemed less reassuring and more like someone was pressing too hard on a bruise. The only sound that was exchanged at that moment was that of Wilson’s shallow breathing; Wes looked down and carefully took the scientist’s wrist into his hand. He pressed gently against where he knew there should be a pulse and though it wasn’t strong it was still there, just as persistent and stubborn as any survivor’s.

 

It was to say again that Wilson wasn’t fragile. He was not some ethereal fae-creature laying prone in the other man’s arms; he was real and tangible. It was odd to think of someone as being small but not fragile and it certainly wasn’t fair to call him delicate, but his wrists were slender and his fingers more suited to the violin or some detailed task than digging through dirt and muck. He did it anyway. But still, Wilson Higgsbury was not fragile. It was the wrong time to notice that his skin was soft, and Wes carefully let his thumb trace the inside of Wilson’s palm, careful to avoid where the metal had cut and instead settled to hold his hand. When he looked back at Wilson’s face, Wes wore a smile that was less pained. Some of the color returned to the small man’s face; Wes assumed that, had he not lost so much blood, Wilson would be blushing right now.

 

“Where… gloves? Did I…?” his voice trailed in and out, and words that held some vital meaning were lost in the air. The scientist fixed the other man with an expression of confusion. His brows knit together, and his head cocked slightly to the side in the way a puppy does when he can’t quite figure out where the ball went. Soon enough his expression fell, and Wilson looked away from Wes, “I’m… a _terrible_ … host.”

 

Makeup did wonders for keeping some of the mime’s more obvious concerns from his features. It hid when he paled, when he blushed, or when he was flustered. Other times, it accentuated the existing expression and called attention to the true details of what was there, like now. It was hard for Wilson to miss that Wes’s lips were full and curved up into a modest smile. It was hard to miss that those meadow grass eyes of his were forgiving, though they were glassier than they had been when Wilson first met him. The movement he made was instinctual. One hand stayed in Wilson’s while the other went to cup his cheek. The gesture was enough to pull the scientist’s attention back to his rescuer.

 

The scientist leaned into the other man’s hand. Wes’s hands were warm and in that state between being neither rough nor smooth. What had he felt like before he came here? What had the mime done before finding himself trapped in the Constant? Before finding himself trapped in some box letting the time tick away? How long had it been since Wes had actually touched another person? Moreover, when was the last time someone had made some sort of favorable contact with Wilson Higgsbury? There were parts of the scientist’s brain that chastised him for this, but they were silenced in favor of merely enjoying the presence of another person.

 

Surely, it must just be the presence of _any_ other person! It couldn't be that the scientist had found himself studying the curve of Wes’s jaw the night before or that he found himself fascinated by the sound of Wes's voice when he sang. It certainly couldn’t have been that Wilson was _equally_ fascinated with how incredibly expressive the taller man was, even without opening his mouth. It couldn’t have been that the scientist was captivated by the timeless creature that knew how to pick him up without setting his insides on fire from his own internal injuries.

 

Surely, it must have been because Wilson was merely lonely, right?

 

“You’re safe now,” the wounded scientist whispered with a weak smile on his lips.

 

Wes traced his thumb across Wilson’s cheek. While the conflict had been raging through Wilson’s mind, the scientist had been blissfully unaware of a similar one running through the other man’s mind. He couldn’t abide by this. He couldn’t abide by someone dying because they didn’t have the good sense to realize that Wes wasn’t worth the effort. He withdrew his hands and went to retrieve the other man’s backpack. Rummaged through the contents Wes found nothing.

 

Nothing that would really help much, at least. He was unaware that the scientist had lost a fair bit of resources when he’d fled and found Wes, and the past held no bearing on the present. The man carefully laid out the bed roll and transferred Wilson to it with that same degree of care he had shown when keeping the scientist from collapsing earlier. With decidedly less care, Wes dumped the contents of the backpack out next to Wilson and began to rummage through.

 

Gold.

A red gem.

 

His expression immediately brightened. _Perfect!_ Wes thought, _all we need now are flowers._ He didn’t question the ways in which the shadows could transform basic objects into life-giving amulets, nor did he question how it could drag someone back from the grave once their hearts stopped beating. Wilson had managed to keep to truly irksome components of the talisman on hand, so all it would take is a little exploration and this entire problem would cease to be a problem.  The mime beamed; all he would have to do was keep Wilson stable enough that he could look for the components in the morning. The problem would be solved and they could finally _leave_. Wes patted Wilson on the arm- one of the few uninjured places that he could find- and gestured off to a nearby pile of wood. He splayed his fingers out and made a small, starburst gesture in front of his chest.

 

It’s been years since he’d had to start a fire, but Wes had no trouble with it. His own stomach growled, but he dismissed the feeling of gnawing hunger; if he was this hungry right now, Wes could only imagine how starving Wilson must feel after such heavy combat. He carefully laid the meager rations close to the fire; berries were quick to cook, and there wasn’t enough meat on a rabbit for it to really take terribly long to roast into something palatable. The taller man had never been terribly picky- food was food- but some part of him wanted to be certain that it was something Wilson might _want_ to eat.

 

The scientist opened his eyes long enough to catch Wes peeling off the oversized shirt he wore on top of his other clothing, revealing his must more form fitting turtleneck underneath. He looked away quickly, his already rapid breathing hitched in his throat. It seemed rude to note the curve of his body, the way lithe muscle was outlined but not broadcast loudly. If he had enough blood left in his system to blush, he certainly would have. The mime retrieved Wilson’s razor and he started to carefully cut the shirt into uniform strips.

 

Armed little more than makeshift bandages, a spider gland, and a sewing kit Wes got to work. He gave Wilson a look of apology as he began to unbutton the other man’s shirt and waistcoat. Wilson was uncertain as to why he felt embarrassed, why he felt compelled to look away as the man methodically undressed him to reach his injuries. Propriety still stated that it would be rude to be so exposed to a near perfect stranger, even if that stranger was treating his wounds. Wilson bit his lower lip, then hissed as the open air hit his skin. Wes carefully applied the contents of the spider gland to his wounds; his hands reached for one of the offending pieces of metal protruding from the scientist’s stomach.

 

He closed his eyes as he pulled the piece out. Wilson let out a choked cry and would have shrieked had he the energy to truly cry out; Wes looked back at his face. Though the scientist tried to give him a reassuring smile his own pain had won out. The mime let out a ragged breath, and continued along with his work. He was slow with it, careful to clean and stitch along the way and wait so Wilson could regain his breath and composure before continuing. It wasn’t long before his stomach and side were full of stitches and wrapped as well as the ramshackle provisions would let him.

 

Wes found himself once again helpless. Though he wasn’t locked away there was little more that he could do to relieve some of the smaller man’s pain, it would all have to wait until the morning. All Wes could do was try and make certain that Wilson made it through the night and held on long enough for him to actually _help_. He rinsed his hands with what little water he could comfortably waste and checked on the food. The sound of Wilson’s cries still rang in his ears; necessary though it may have been in, the taller man still felt his stomach knot up at the obvious agonies he’d inflicted upon his companion. His mind wandered to the scene he’d witnessed before and quietly tried not to relive the memory. Watching each blow and each ragged breath come from the scientist’s lungs, remembering the bright and exuberant way he’d spoken suddenly dimmed by the events that had unfolded. The sound of Maxwell’s warning still fresh in his ears: _Now, I suggest that you convince Snow White to continue along his merry way._

_Don’t spoil the surprise for him_.

 

Wes thought about how he’d tried, desperately tried to ward Wilson off by shutting down, pushing him out, keeping his attentions way from the scientist and how utterly dejected he’d been when Wes had done so. Like he’d done something wrong. No, the only thing Wilson had done wrong was failing to realize how the trapped man wasn’t worth the suffering he was experiencing now and that dumb, doe-eyed thing still looked at Wes like he was worth every bit of the risk.

 

And why?

 

Wes shivered as he gathered the now cooked food from the fire. He made certain to put another log on to keep it nice and properly roaring. Wilson reached out, his icy fingertips resting on the other man’s arm.

 

“Are you cold, too?” Wilson asked.

The taller man looked back at the wounded scientist, his lips upturned briefly and he nodded. It couldn’t be further from the truth, but it’s easier to lie to a person when you don’t have to say anything.

“Here,” he grasped the edges of the thin blanket nearby it over to the mime.

Wes put his hands up and shook his head vigorously. Wilson furrowed his brows and his mouth set into a fine line.

 

The mime sighed, finally looking away and giving a defeated smile. He put two fingers up, the universal sign for _one moment_ , before he adjusted his position. Just as careful as he had before, Wes cautiously gathered the smaller man into his arms and sat him in his lap; he grabbed the edges of the thin blanket and pulled it over the scientist nestled against him. Wilson looked up at him, brown eyes tracing the line where Wes’s bright white makeup stopped and his olive skin began. The mime’s mouth quirked to one side and one eyebrow lifted- _there, happy?_ The expression couldn’t have said it louder even if it came from his own lips.

 

Wes picked up one of the juicy, roasted berries and held it to Wilson’s lips.

“No no no, you… you should…”

The mime gave him a flat look, mouth pressed neat into a line and his brows furrowed. The scientist’s cheeks felt warm as embarrassment overtook his features- the man had full intention on feeding, whether Wilson was happy about it or not.

“Fine.”

 

Wes popped one of the berries into Wilson’s mouth before he readied another. The smaller man chewed, savoring the sweet flavor on his tongue before taking in another; Wes’s fingertips brushed his lips, the act clearly wasn’t deliberate though it provoked a reaction all the same. Wilson’s heart beat loud in his ears, his eyes closed and he finally acquiesced. He nestled close into the other man’s arms, and quietly reminded himself that this was merely his fevered brain talking. It wasn’t long before the small scientist had fallen asleep in Wes’s arms. He peered down at him- small but not delicate. Brilliant, but without the good sense to run. Brave, willing to sacrifice but for what? All he could hope was that the other man held on until morning. Until then, Wes would protect him in whatever ways he could.

 

* * *

 

Wilson woke up in the morning with the taste of berries on his lips. He pulled his thin blanket around him, clenching his eyes shut. There was a tight feeling in his chest and his breathing was uneven for reasons other than the injuries he’d sustained the previous day.

 

“ _Stupid_ ,” he choked, voice trembling.

 

His backpack was gone.

He was alone.


	6. The Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Wilson and Wes find themselves gripped by their slowly-slipping sanity, but Wes finds himself faced with a familiar visitor. Does she really mean him well?

 It had been years since Wes had actually been _in_ the Constant. Surviving and getting through what was in front of him was an exercise in reacquainting his muscles with the memory of years of making it through whatever this place could throw at him. Just outside of the chessboard he had bitterly called home for the last several years was a forest with thick tree cover and the distinct lack of birds in the air. As the man passed deeper into the trees the details of the area began to change around him. Those evergreens stretched tall and undeterred, almost rivaling some of the ancient redwoods he’d seen in his brief trip to America. It takes centuries for trees to grow this tall, and though they seemed to grow faster in the Constant Wes was certain this area had been undisturbed for quite some time.

 

Or, at least, no survivor had ever been through here. As he continued the man saw the pepperings of webbing on the tree limbs and underbrush. The forest seemed trapped in a perpetual dusk courtesy of the thick branches overhead and the steadily growing presence of spider webs. It was a wonder they didn’t start eating themselves. _Or maybe they’ve started hunting further out_ , Wes shuddered at the thought. Still, he moved forward. The taller man needed to know where the forest ended, and more importantly if there was something on the other side. The whole place made his skin crawl, made something whisper in the back of his mind that he should run. Not look back. Save his skin and leave the little lightweight to rot here because-

 

_Stop it._

 

Those thoughts weren’t his. Wes knew they weren’t his but was it an indication of his self-preservation instinct or his own slowly-slipping sanity? This world was taxing. It ate on any reasonable person; any extended time in the Constant makes one less and less reasonable. In the distance, something whispered with its careful and delicate voice; the words weren’t clear but the cadent and the timbre were familiar. _Charlie_. Her presence hang on everything here when the light began to fade and in those moments between dawn and dusk she seemed more herself. It was daytime, but in that shaded grove filled with crawling, webbed horrors there was just enough darkness for her influence to linger.

 

Wes slogged forward, keeping to the outskirts of the trees in hopes of avoiding the webbed flooring and alerting the spiders to his presence. He approached the sounds, closer and closer until they came into view: flowers. Some thorned and others velvety with deep browns and scarlets and pale, dying lavenders. They were nothing like the flowers that grew anywhere else; they were lovely in their own way. This was what he needed! Wes crouched beside the first of the flowers and soon enough he could see them- dozens of them. The air around him was thick as honey and clung to his hair. As the man stepped forward, the whispering grew louder.

* * *

 Wilson stared at the ashes from where their fire had been. The air was still that unpleasant silence that he had come to expect from this part of the world. There were no birds here. It struck him as odd that he hadn’t seen a single one since he’d been dropped here by the shadows.

 

The other worlds had birds. They also had rabbits and beefalo and were almost pleasant in comparison to the gauntlet he had been running before. _A little more challenging?_ Wilson thought to himself, echoing what he had heard from Maxwell once he’d passed into that first world and figured out the game here. He assumed that this was just part of it, that the subtle decreasing supplies of food from friendly wildlife had been some sort of difficulty modifier; the scientist could muse on this all day but it would bring him no closer to getting out of here when-

 

Wilson tried to sit up, only finding that sharp pain in his ribs again. “Careful,” he hissed.

 

Undeterred, the scientist forced himself into a sitting position to observe his camp. Most of the contents of Wilson’s backpack were emptied beside the fire, presumably picked through in the dying firelight before dawn. There was some cooked food left from the previous night, the remnants of his sewing kit, and a metal potato thing. _Wait,_ Wilson thought _, why didn’t…_ He looked around again, catching a look at the rest of the camp. Neatly-bundled grass, wood, pieces of marble, a crank, the ring- the only thing that was missing was the wooden box. _He’s not going to leave,_ Wilson mused, _he wouldn’t._

 

“Why would he go through the trouble if he was just going to leave me?”

 _“Because you’re still useful,”_ something whispered. The scientist turned to the source of the sound, only to find that he was alone. It wasn’t clear and Wilson felt it more on his skin than he did on his ears. A slippery, slithering sound that refused to stay still. The earth was breathing beneath him, but Wilson didn’t feel it.

 

Not yet.

* * *

Wes had never really stopped to think about how beautiful these flowers were, or how much he had well and truly missed being outside. The air was thick and almost painful on his lungs in the way any heavily perfumed thing was; the scent of the dark petals was almost overwhelming. It left the taste of rotting roses on his tongue and a tightness in his chest that wasn’t from the scent and more from the memory. He’d had years worth of time to think, and years more to hear her pound against the sides of his cage in hopes of doing what They had tasked her to do.

 

Charlie didn’t have a cruel bone in her body, but she wasn’t exactly herself anymore was she?

 

The man shook the thought away, knowing he couldn’t stay in the field longer than necessary because the longer he stayed there the more the smell got to him and the more he didn’t want to leave. At the edge of his vision, a figure shifted and skittered away. A shadow too solid to belong to anything that was knowable by human standards. This was how it started, with a flicker just out of sight and thoughts he’d never dare entertain. Wes carefully plucked a patch of ornate thorns from the ground. He winced, that thick and hazy feeling hanging in his head.

 

 _“Wes?”_ someone whispered.

He closed his eyes tightly; this was his imagination. This was his mind slipping. Wes plucked another flower.

 _“… not safe…”_ the voice said, feminine and familiar.

 _[Aren’t you hungry?]_ another sound came, growling from the inner recesses of his mind. Wes looked down at the petals again. Another came _[So sweet, don’t you miss food?]_

He grabbed a third flower, pulling it up by the roots and flinging rich soil as he did. The sounds around him grew louder, and the two voices became more bold and numerous.

 _“Wes, please,”_ Wes could place her voice beyond all the others. Some shadowy tendril swam between his hands. He pulled his four flower and then the fifth. The mime reached for the sixth flower when-

 

 _“Stop.”_  

* * *

Wilson couldn’t sit there and wait for the day to tick by. Though sleeping had kept him refreshed and he certainly felt better than he had, as the day wore on he could feel himself slowly wanting to curl up and rest more. It was a privilege Wilson had long since realized he would not have- resting, that is. Having the opportunity to sit still long enough to heal. He’d fumbled through with a few broken ribs before, how hard could this be? The scientist merely had to keep out of trouble long enough for everything to set back into place.

 

Removed from the situation and warranted some daylight, he could see the reds and purples and greens of fresh bruising coming up on his exposed torso. He was thankful he didn’t have a mirror or else vanity would prove too much for the man and he would likely not dare be seen in public until the bruising on his jaw went away. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been- the broken nose wasn’t terrible and he hadn’t lost any teeth through some miracle of events. His hands hadn’t been crushed. His legs still worked; the only thing that really kept him from traveling was associated entirely with hypovolemia. Still, progress didn’t wait for a little blood loss to clear up.

 

The shorter man took another quick survey of his area, fully aware that to travel to the next world he’d need his divining rod as well as the other pieces to complete the portal. It was a puzzle- a scavenger hunt with deadly consequences for losing and his only hints for where to go were determined by a radio that played when he got warmer or colder.

 

And, sometimes, it played a voice singing sad and lonesome. A voice who, in the moments between his silence, let things slip like how he’d seen _Carmen_ once and was enthralled by the toreador’s song and how he’d once stayed a week in the Louvre if only by avoiding the security at the gallery and relying on the fact that it was too big for someone to really find him unless they knew where to look. _He wouldn’t abandon me,_ Wilson reminded himself, _he went through all that trouble._

 _“He pitied you,”_ his shadow hissed.

“Not now,” Wilson winced.

 

The man’s survey soon found his divining rod just on the outskirts of where Wes’s prison had been. It was an arduous crawl to actually get there, choosing instead the ability to actually move over his pride. Wilson didn’t want to risk a fall, not when he had God-knows how many stitches in his stomach and internal bleeding. His head was starting to hurt; the world beneath him _moved_. Wilson shut his eyes tight and focused on the sound of his own breathing. It was still shallow, still shaking, but it was steady. _Slowly,_ he thought, _just focus on breathing and moving._ Wilson tried to focus on the ground beneath him and the sensation of cold marble on his cut palms. _Fifteen feet, you can do this_.

 

“Fifteen feet… is…” he panted, talking to himself to keep his mind off the unfamiliar voice echoing in his head.

_“He didn’t **want** you. You should have left-.”_

“Four-hundred fifty centimeters… which is…”

_“But you didn’t, did you?_

“Four… point five… meters…”

_“Too weak to stand on your own and too **stupid** to die.”_

“Shut. Up,” Wilson insisted, his voice more like a growl than something one would expect from a civilized gentleman.

 _“Poor lamb-”_ the voice crooned. Its voice turned to laughter, mocking and derisive, and was joined by the shuddering earth beneath him. The marble beneath his hands seemed to pulse beneath him as though the stone itself wanted to swallow him whole. He shut his eyes tightly and kept crawling. _Almost there…_

* * *

Wes looked up from where he was crouched and found her face easily enough. Charlie looked exactly how she had all those years before; her hair was a mess of barely-tamed waves with a red rose pinning part of it away from her face. Even perched underneath an umbrella, her skin was pale, and her eyes were-

 

Black. Solid. No whites, no warm browns that he’d remembered from years before, nothing but an unending void behind her gaze.

 

He winced, turning his head away. There was nothing else in the world around them, just a field of flowers that stretched on for miles and a flat, grey sky without clouds. She put her hand over his, a painful cold but one Wes would gladly accept. His hand stayed around the base of the sixth flower, its burgundy petals soft against his skin.

 

“Wes, stop,” she told him, her voice soft and plaintive, “you know this is too much.”

He looked back at her, shaking his head _no._

“You can’t-“

The man drew his attention back downward and plucked the flower from the ground. Charlie wrapped her hand around his wrist, her grip too tight for a creature so seemingly delicate.

“Do you think the game ends when the king is off the board?” her voice trembled, “what’s to stop Them from resetting it all?”

 

Wes dropped the tainted flower and looked back at the apparition. He wasn’t sure if she was real- she couldn’t be. Charlie was no longer human and no longer played by human rules; the mime could feel his sanity slipping but in that moment he didn’t care if she was real or not, he only wanted… what? What did Wes want? The man looked back at the shadow-being’s face. There were tears in her eyes, soon streaking down her cheeks in that sickly gossamer violet that all nightmare being seemed to bleed. Out of instinct, he brought his hand to her cheek to wipe them away and she pulled in close.

 

She was so deathly cold, and he could feel her breathing shallow and ragged against his chest. Charlie clutched against him so tightly that her fingertips felt more like talons against his ribcage, and in that moment, all he could do was be aware of her distress. They stayed there, and he could feel the sun starting to creep downward and the day turning into the late afternoon. He carefully ran his fingers through her hair, lost in the moment.

 

“You’re warm,” Charlie whispered, “it’s nice.”

 

_(And his mind wandered for a moment, to the feeling of the smaller scientist in his arms, the way he'd felt so cold and how his lips felt soft on his fingertips. He thought back to the way his eyelashes were thick like Charlie's- or were Charlie's eyelashes thick like Wilson's? Wes thought to how he'd turned to the sound of Wes's voice even when he was locked away. Thought about the bloodied shirt wrapped around Wilson's midsection and how the scientist had tried to cover him up in hopes of starving off the cold. "You're warm," he's said, delirious from blood loss but-)_

 

Wes pulled back immediately, looking down at the small woman in his arms. Charlie cocked her head to the side, blank eyes staring back at him. He pulled away and immediately crouched to pick the seventh and eighth flowers he’d needed. Just a few yards away, he could see the edges of a wooden platform, red writing faintly glowing in the cooling air. Wes held the flowers tight in his hand, and he looked back around him. The world was starting to come back. The field of dark and tempting flowers was still large, but he could see the edges of the field around him. He could see the dark looming forest full of spiders he had just left to get here. He took off his backpack and retrieved the piece of gold and the red stone he had needed.

 

“Why are you… Wes, you can’t,” she told him. The woman knelt beside the mime and reached forward for the flowers. Wes pulled away, “you can’t save him, just… let him go. Let him reach the throne and stay with me. _Please_. They’ve taken enough from you, don’t _give_ them more.”

 

He held the supplies for the amulet in his hands, loose and limp. His breathing was ragged as his attention went back to the woman who had once meant so much with plaintive eyes. They looked at each other in silence, wasting time to share a moment between them. Time that they both knew Wes, and _Wilson,_ did not have. With delicate care, Charlie retrieved them from the tired man before her. Hands clasped over the precious metals and jewels, the flower petals were picked one by one and he watched, captivated by it all. Her movements were flowery and elegant- forever a performer- and soon the shadows engulfed the whole of the concoction. When she spoke again, hers was the voice of thousands, indistinct and overwhelming. That lovely memory before him was gone, replaced with shadows and dread. The world went black, and there was Nothing.

 

Then nothing.

 

When the dim light returned Wes found all that was left of the apparition was a life-giving amulet on the soft ground and a field full of roses. He was so lost in the haze of what had happened that he hadn’t even heard the spiders coming up behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a smaller chapter this time around, since this week was pretty hectic and this seemed like a good place to stop before launching off into chapter 7.
> 
> Again, if you find any typos or weird grammatical things, let me know! I am not above bribing people to find my mistakes!


	7. A Type of Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilson grapples with his slipping sanity while trying to come up with a way to save his companion. When he has to seek the assistance of an enemy, the scientist finds facing the possibility of paying a price greater than he is capable.

The scientist finally reached the divining rod, the contemptuous snickers of the voices around him pounding his senses. They always seemed louder when he had a task at hand. _Scavengers,_ he thought bitterly to himself. Doubt and insanity only tried to pick his bones clean when he was already wounded in some way; the voices were _opportunistic._ It was easier to characterize his plight as something external instead of internal; Wilson couldn’t bear the thought that, perhaps, this was all just a trick of his own mind. That people were right about him, that-

 

“Stop it,” he insisted again. He rested his head on the marble floor beneath him and closed his eyes tight, “not now, not now, not _now_.”

 

It would have been easy to take it all in, to _believe_ what the voices were telling him. Reason dictated that this was the ramblings of a man’s consciousness under duress. What a stable mind exists under is logic, and it would be logic and reason that would pull Wilson Higgsbury out of this world and into the next one. The world existed and it obeyed rules; he would conquer this, and any other obstacle, with the power of his mind and his will to persevere. He couldn’t cave, not when there were two worlds left- not when he was so close to escape! They’d both be home and-

 

Both of them- Wilson _and_ Wes. It made him smile at the notion that the man wouldn’t have to be trapped in this hellscape any longer than he already was. Thoughts meandered as he settled himself into a sitting position to get to work on the divining rod because if there was going to be a way out of this 14905place the little radio-on-a-stick was going to be the thing that got them out of here. The device itself had been designed in suck a fashion that he could easily dismantle it in the event that he needed to adjust the innards. Thumb screws were a godsend for someone who needed to crack open a device quickly and make necessary changes on the fly. Wilson had to rebuild the divining rod enough times that he had a handle on what could be changed and what was non-negotiable.

 

Like the broken knob at the front- _that_ was non-negotiable. He swallowed but couldn’t quite get the sickly feeling out of his mouth. There was no way Wes could have broken it, nor would he have been able to do so in his sleep- Wilson knew that he slept hard- so it only left one rational option. Wilson started to work on removing the feet from the bottom of the device, having designed them to operate as the screws holding the outer casing to the base and front. The scientist did as he always did in such situations- he tried to distract himself with work to keep the thoughts at bay. But, as it always did, they didn’t _go_ away.

 

_“We thought you were lonely,”_ one voice said, so close the scientist could feel its forked tongue flicker across his ear. When Wilson snapped his head to the left to stare it down he only saw a snakelike figure dissipate into the air around him. He’d clenched his jaw for so long that the muscles were starting to get sore.

 

The man pulled away the casing on the device and sat it to the side; four screws went into the pocket of his waistcoat. Bloody or not, pockets were pockets. The top came off easily and he found himself faced with the innards of his device; although it was assembled with cobbled-together pieces, it was still sophisticated in its design. Wilson Higgsbury was bitterly acquainted with the mechanics of radios, having rigged the one he had at home to interplay with the antennae he’d stuck to the top of his cottage. He’d had the theory that additional amplification would allow him to pick up stronger signals and more distant stations. On clear nights, Wilson could pick up a signal in the next state so when he’d heard the voice on the other end he’d initially believed he was hearing some teleplay the next state over.

 

It wasn’t until the voice told him to flip the switch that-

 

_“You’re never alone here,”_ that voice said again, this time the presence made Wilson feel dizzy. The world moved without him. The scientist’s fingertips trembled as he adjusted the divining rod to see it in the light. Some of the pieces rattled, confirming what he had suspected earlier- the connections had slipped. The fine gold wires, perfect for conducting electrical currents, had come off their intended diode and went instead to the metal base. Combining that with the leak from the nightmare fuel-filled cooling system. It was a _mess_ in there, and frankly Wilson was shocked that the whole thing had worked at all, much less that it had managed to lead him to a living person.

 

_The leak must have caused the frequency change,_ Wilson hypothesized. He moved to reattach the wiring to the appropriate diodes, taking special care to keep from touching the strange substance that seemed to fuel everything around here. His attention went back to the broken control mechanism and the implications that were there. “You didn’t say anything because you couldn’t-“ Wilson hissed “-it was _obvious!_ Wilson Higgsbury, what is _wrong_ with you?”

 

He shook his head again, reaching for the place where the dial was supposed to connect to the machine’s inner workings. There wasn’t much to grab, but Wilson did manage to twist it enough that he could hear it hum to life; even if this place was Hell, there was a certain satisfaction in knowing the things that he built actually worked here. Static poured through the crackling speaker, filaments rattling like they’d blown out ages ago. The sound quality was atrocious, but it didn’t sound like the typical static nor did it sound like the usual chatter of voices that took residence in his consciousness.

 

These things weren’t human.

 

His brown eyes narrowed at the corners and he leaned closer to the speaker in hopes of discerning what was going on over the derisive chatter in his head. Wilson was grinding his teeth again, somehow the sensation of tightness across his jaw and the ache in his molars was grounding enough to keep him present. The scientist was lucky he’d only had to cement two back into place before, not that it mattered; every time he died he came back hale and hearty and just as he had been when he first arrived. The words across the divining rod had his attention as they graveled forth. At first the timbre reminded him of someone slurping at the end of a near-finished drink and the person was desperately trying to get out those last few drops.

 

_O u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s  O u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s  O u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s_

_O u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s  O u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s O u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s O u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s O u r [qu’est ce que se passe?] m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s O u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s O u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s-_

The sound droned on, relaxing in the way that all monotonous things are when you aren’t listening to the specific words. It was that break of a familiar voice that drew him back to reality and made him finally realize what it was the creatures on the other side were saying. Made him made the connection between their hissing burbles and the wet chittering he knew from their kind. The scientist snapped the top of the case back onto the divining rod.

 

_“Let them eat,”_ a voice over Wilson’s shoulder purred, _“spiders get hungry too-“_

“That’s wrong, I can’t-“

_“He **abandoned** you, afterall.”_

“No, he didn’t, Wes was going to come back a-and even if he wasn’t-“ Wilson used the device as a brace to pull himself up, “nobody deserves _that_.”

“Deserves what, pal?”

 

Wilson turned quickly enough that he almost lost his footing, only to be saved by a solid arm around his midsection. Whatever strength Maxwell had was unnatural, not unlike the shadows he conjured to do his bidding. The scientist wondered if they were one in the same, but it was a thought he only entertained when he had the luxury of a clear mind, and this was not one of those junctures. The pressure around his ribs made him painfully aware of how badly everything hurt and made him equally aware of the injuries Wes hadn’t been able to treat the night before.

He put a hand on Maxwell’s arm, making some feeble attempt to shove it away from him. Wilson shook his head.

“Careful, you’ll fall.” Was Maxwell… concerned?

“I don’t have time for this-“ Wilson tried to move forward, still finding himself impeded by the hand around his waist and not being strong enough to bat him away “-let go, he’s-”

“He’s what?” the magician’s voice held an edge. The arm about Wilson’s waist was replaced with something more akin to what tried to snuff out his fire at night. His lungs burned with each breath of air he tried to draw in. “ _Stuck_?”

“How do you know that?” the scientist sounded dazed. He turned his head to spy the king who had dared to survey his kingdom. Maxwell was pristine, though there were features about him that seemed too sharp now. Sharp teeth. Sharp gaze. Sharp words. All honed to go for something vital. Maxwell made looking lazily at his prey into an artform. The shadows and the divining rod were the only things holding Wilson up at that juncture, and the only things that truly held him back from barreling forward to go save his companion.

“ _Our mother, she hungers-_ do you know how spiders hunt, Higgsbury?”

“…”

 

The shadows tensed across his ribs, harsh enough that he let out an involuntary cry of pain. Hard enough that he thought he felt one of his stitches start to come undone.

 

“Explain it to the class,” the magician spread his arms outward and walked away. The scientist’s vision was clouded by haze and monstrosities. Snake-like beings, crawling blobs and eight-legged beaked horrors, “how _do_ spiders hunt, Mr. Higgsbury?”

“ _Agelena consociate_ shares its web with fellow spiders, some colonies boasting over a thousand members… it… they’re funnel web spiders… that-”

“That means..?”

“Funnel web spiders cast large horizontal webs and they stay underneath in a burrow and come out to retrieve their prey. The spider bites its prey-“ Wilson clenched his eyes shut and shook his head “-no-Maxwell, _let me go!_ He-I mean-I don’t have time-“

“And what does it feel like?

“I’m not doing this,” his breathing was ragged for a reason aside from the shadows wrapped about his ribcage.

“You said it yourself, he doesn’t have time for this,” the demon king’s smile was sickly satisfied, “and the sooner you explain the severity of this situation the sooner I can help. What happens when a spider bites its prey?”

 

He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to acquiesce and give Maxwell the satisfaction of knowing how well-and-truly trapped Wilson was at that juncture. He could barely move on his own, and with the divining rod functional again he had a front row seat to the mime’s final performance- and not even a day after he’d been freed. The scientist’s whole body hurt, and the longer he was held up the more he realized he wouldn’t make it more than a day or two on his own without help. He couldn’t fight right now and couldn’t risk facing Maxwell’s ire. He’d _have_ to play along.

 

“When a spider bites its prey-“ he powered through, keeping it clinical “-the fang enclosed in the basal segment comes out and sinks into the prey’s flesh. Spider fangs are often hollow and a duct leads to the venom gland typically found inside of the basal segment th-the venom gland excretes its toxins and the hollow fang delivers it to its prey.”

“What does it _feel_ like?”

“It stings…”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Louder.”

“It **stings**! And-and you can feel it going into your body and-and at first it hurts and your muscles seize up… and-and it makes it hard to breathe, and time slows down and you can still feel everything even though your body won’t move no matter how hard you want it to move, and-and-and I wanted to move- I always want to move but I _can’t_ -“ he gripped the divining rod tighter so it wouldn’t fall from his trembling hands; his legs wouldn’t have held him even if they were capable “-a-a-and then it wraps you up, except-except these are like _Agelena consociate,_ they’re-they’re communal, just because one isn’t eating you it doesn’t mean you aren’t being saved for later and they wrap you up and-and- i-if you’re lucky they eat you soon or you are injected with too much venom and your lungs become paralyzed and you suffocate because that only takes a couple minutes of drowning in the air while you’re losing your sight and the world is going black or the Night falls and puts you out of your misery or-or-or _”_

 

[ _He remembered this, remembered the way that it felt when his arms were pinned to his sides the first time, as the hissing, green-and-black limbed thing ran the webbing across his body and around. he remembered screaming until his body literally could no longer produce sound. Though the spiders may have paralyzed him, it didn't mean that they had numbed him from sensation. On the contrary, Wilson had been well aware of his predicament. He remembered the gnawing hunger as he waited for his inevitable demise, remembered looking at the end of a glowing cigar as the one bit of near-human contact that may be there and the feeling of a gloved hand across his cheek. The web used to cocoon prey wasn't intended to be sticky, it needed to be strong enough to keep prey from thrashing.  "Don't worry pal, you get used to this after awhile." And with that he was gone. Wilson remembered what it felt like to have his insides dissolved for ease of consumption. By that point, he couldn't have screamed even if he wanted to. Maxwell was wrong, though. Wilson never got used to it.]_

 

He was hyperventilating, and the earth shook beneath his feet. They were all laughing at him- his damnable audience- all crooning their mocking concerns, all taking their jabs and letting him know where he stood. The poor lamb, how scared he was just _thinking_ about them! Of all the things out in this horrible world, who would have believed that spiders were the things that would make his skin crawl the world. The shadows dropped him rudely to the floor, sprawled out on his knees and prostrate before the king of the realm.

 

"I can’t-" Wilson panted, cheeks wet and streaked from tears he couldn't remember crying- "-I can’t let-I can’t- Maxwell, _please_!"

 

_Maxwell, please-_ oh, that was a sound he loved to hear, wasn’t it? The magician shuddered, though the look of satisfaction never once left his face. He crouched before his plaything, taking his chin in hand and tipping Wilson’s face to meet his. So rarely did he have the scientist so vulnerable and at his mercy; it almost made having that other damnable survivor out and about a worthwhile sacrifice.

 

“Please what?” Maxwell asked, his voice relaying a sort of painful naivety that could not have been true. His own dark eyes never left Wilson’s brown ones.

“Please help me get there. I-I have to help Wes...they’ll- they…” _Please don’t make me say it._

“Why should I?”

“Be-because…” Wilson’s gaze fell downward, “because I would be grateful.”

“And do I get to decide how you show that gratitude?”                                                                  

The scientist nodded.

“Excellent,” Maxwell grinned, “now, if you get eaten alive before you get to thank me I will be sorely disappointed.”

 

Supplies were packed, and with little fanfare the king of the realm was merrily escorting his captive scientist towards the source of the divining rod’s input. _Our mother, she hungers!_ Over and over and over again. So long as the spiders were chittering, Wilson could take comfort in the fact that they likely hadn’t done anything to Wes just yet. The content of the message was clear enough: he wasn’t their food. Wes was _Her_ food. Knowing that he could save this other man was enough to keep him focused. It was enough to keep him from lingering on the warm body next to him, the one whose frame held nothing but malice. The one who held Wilson too tightly and too close.

 

The one to whom Wilson would need to show his gratitude. Maybe if he was lucky, the spiders really might kill him first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for reading! I'm going to try and actually respond to people's comments but I'm always so pleased to get them and they brighten my day to know people are reading my story and hopefully enjoying it. Thanks for sticking with me!


	8. Our mother, she hungers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unarmed and off-balance, Wes tries to make it through the spider den while Wilson is marched merrily into the very threat that scares him the most. Will their foes prove to be too much?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has gore. And spiders. 
> 
> Lots. And lots. Of spiders. 
> 
> You have been warned.

There was no way to ease back into surviving, not when you were this far into the game of whatever was going on around you. Wes knew that, so he should have known that something peaceful wasn’t going to stay that way for long. He had walked through a forest that all but screamed ill-portents and there he was in a field full of roses with an emptiness in his chest that he had almost managed to forget about. He thought he’d had enough time for introspection since there was little else to do when you were trapped away from the rest of the world. All it did was dull his senses, leave his muscles sore and his body weaker than it had been when he went in- a heartiness he may never recover. Whatever sorceries kept Wes from dying over-and-over from starvation or madness had to take its power from somewhere.

 

How long can one stay in captivity before releasing them renders the prisoner to dust?

 

He hadn’t been _frail_ before. He still wasn’t, not outwardly, but when the spider hissed and sunk its fangs into the back of his calf Wes didn’t remember it hurting so much before. It never would have made him cry out (ha!) but it did steal his breath. The taller man jerked forward to pull himself out of reach and survey the situation. He’d only seen three spiders, and though they were of uncomfortable size, Wes felt confident that he could deal with them… if he had a weapon. He clenched the life-giving amulet in his hand before making a break for the tree line. He had to get back to Wilson- neither of them had time for this. The spiders hissed and gave chase.

 

As far as enemies went, spiders were some of the easier ones to contend with. They were simple creatures with simpler wants whose hunting techniques were no more sophisticated than what their real-world counterparts were. Not that Wes had ever considered himself as some kind of hunter or wildlife expert before he got here- on the contrary. The only real wildlife he’d seen before he got here consisted of large rats and angry pomeranians but experience was one Hell of a teacher and Wes was quick to learn and quicker to adapt.

 

If he killed them out here in the field, they wouldn’t run back to their nest and bring reinforcements. Wes slung the pack off his shoulder, digging to find something that might work as a weapon. He needed flint. Flint and rope and _something_ to make a spear with. He thought back to what they may have, realizing that they’d been lacking in that particular resource since Wilson had fought with the clockwork chess pieces; he didn’t take what was left of the spear with him for fear of leaving the injured man utterly defenseless.

 

This was supposed to be _quick_.

 

But the sun was crawling away and the spiders were no doubt getting ready to wake for the evening and roam for their prey and Wes was digging through pack for something that would give him some kind of assistance in this fight. The only thing he pulled back was a strange metal crank. He’d almost forgotten it was in the pack at all. It had a good weight, a decent feel in the hands; Wes didn’t have time to marvel at weapon choice and, instead, took a solid swing at one of the pursuing spiders. Its carapace crunched under the blow, causing the spider to shrink back and freeze in place.

One blow turned into two, then four, then six. Once that final hit landed the spider was nothing more than a cracked mess of limbs curled inward and bloody violet pulp. He gave quick check to make certain this makeshift weapon wasn’t breaking; miraculously, it seemed unharmed. Of course it would be nigh-on indestructible, they couldn’t play Maxwell’s game if the pieces were broken. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t like he could use his fists on something with an exoskeleton; even if he could it would have been foolish. You don’t put your hands close to something’s mouth that wants to eat you.

Wes’s grip tensed on the metal crank as he took a second swing at an oncoming spider. It connected hard enough that it sent the animal off-balance and while dispatching of spiders wasn’t difficult it was time consuming. He could slowly draw them out one by one if need be but by the time he got somewhere with it the sun would be down and it would be too late. For all Wes knew, Wilson might have succumbed to internal injuries by that point.

He had to get back.

* * *

 

“Y’know, pal, I’d like to know what you hope to gain from this,” Maxwell mused as he walked Wilson along his merry way. The pace was at once maddeningly slow and entirely too fast for the scientist’s tastes; he wasn’t the one who got to set the pace here. He kept his eyes forward, forcing his focus anywhere but on the man holding him up.

 

He’d always been aware that he wasn’t necessarily tall, but Maxwell all but towered over the scientist pressed against his side. He didn’t like how tightly the king gripped his side, how his gloved fingers seemed to press insistently against his cracked ribs. It was as if Maxwell was checking for a weakness, pressing just hard enough to make sure Wilson was well-and-truly aware of his predicament. The fact that he had hand wrapped around the scientist’s upper arm didn’t help, either. It kept him on his feet but didn’t do anything to soothe Wilson’s nerves.

 

“Well?” Pressure against his ribcage snapped Wilson back to reality. He hissed at the harsh reminder.  
“We’re both getting out of here.”  
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”  
“…”  
“On a more immediate level,” Maxwell continued, “what is so important about that damned mime that you _pleaded for me_  to take you here.” He smiled, “schadenfreude, perhaps? Were you just that curious if They’d let him scream before-“  
“That’s enough,” Wlson snapped.

 

He could all but feel Maxwell smirking. The scientist scowled and, instead, paid attention to the voices pouring from the divining rod. There had to be a way to make it more efficient, a way he could finetune the frequencies and make it less of a guess and test sort of device. So many scientific discoveries come as an accident but recreating them and testing them is where the fun begins. Intellectual exploration had been, and would always be, a comfort to Wilson Higgsbury. The world could take many things for him, but one couldn’t take his mind. Not without a fight.

 

They approached a darkened forest. The sun was crawling towards the horizon, and the voices from the divining rod were eerily clear.

 

_Our mother, she hungers_   
_Our mother, she hungers_   
_Our mother, she hungers_

* * *

 

Wes charged towards the forest, hoping that perhaps if he plowed through the tree line and underbrush fast enough then the spiders would be too tripped up to catch up. He could survive a few bites if it meant getting back to the unexpected camp he’d set up back on the chess board.

 

The spiders followed in pursuit and the taller man had little problem outrunning them on his own turf; Wes had always been fast. Quick to run, quick to dodge. In his prime he could go for days without so much as a scratch but time dulls the senses; this was no time for excuses. With the life-giving amulet still clenched tight in one hand, Wes ran. Once his feet hit the shaded woods, he took in the daunting sight before him.

 

Had the spiders’ nests been so numerous before? He could count a dozen of the little monsters easily, some striped green and hissing while others boasted the glossy black body of simpler creatures. Two nests had since turned to four while a large bundle of webbing seemed to lay across the center of the path. The longer Wes looked the more he could swear that he saw it breathing. There was a primal fear one felt when they were faced with creatures so alien; he couldn’t put his finger on it, but their very presence made his skin crawl and his imagination retreat to places darker than their forest home.

 

He took a few cautious steps into the forest, and the moment his feet touched the webbing beneath him the small vibrations caught the attention of the spiders splayed out across it. They weren’t known for their keen eyesight, often wandering straight into traps whilst pursuing their prey, but there was little impeding them from pursuing the mime. Wes pressed forward, the webbing sticking and catching around his legs while he moved forward. Twelve easily became thirteen and then fifteen and more still. The further he came the more withered bindings he noticed. Birds. Rabbits. Merms missing limbs and laid desiccated and hollow on the ground. A nearby spider lunged for the young man and Wes narrowly dodged out of the way. His footing wasn’t necessarily stable, but his speed and reflexes were doing him justice at that juncture.

 

Wes had no interest in killing spiders, knowing it would only serve as a waste of time. Each hit he swung only served to stun his pursuers, though once a swing landed he found himself battered in another direction by a spider. Not by bites but by their physical presence. Though Wes tried to press forward he found himself shoved along, closer to the center of the path.

 

They weren’t attacking him; they were _herding_ him.

* * *

 

The forest was steadily darkening the further in Maxwell and Wilson came. The hissing of the spiders came and surrounded his senses. The hissing was harsh but the translation drolled on, the voices numbering nearly twenty and layered over each other. Their words came as a chant and soared over each other, like a room full of quarrelsome children. Wilson’s stomach tensed, bile rising in his throat and soon enough he was digging his heels in to avoid the inevitable. Still, Maxwell pressed onward. The smaller man struggled against the demon king’s rather insistent grip but to no avail.

 

“Wait-” Wilson protested, “-wait, we need -“  
“What’s all this we business?” the older man chided with a smirk.  
“Stop, I-I can’t just-“ he stammered.  
“Getting cold feet, friend?” Despite his protests, Maxwell had little problem hauling the scientist forward due to the smaller man’s injured state.  
“Let _go_!”

 

The spiders stopped their pursuit of the mime in favor of turning to investigate the noise from the brush. While some stayed with Wes, the others were more interested in what this new and interesting distraction would be. Spiders were simple things, but no less dangerous for their simplicity. The tall young man took another swing to bat the slowly approaching spiders out of the way. He knew that voice. He knew both of those voices and the gravity of what could befall them came upon Wes full-force. He couldn’t abide by this, couldn’t let whatever horrible fate was about to befall the scientist happen to him because he had the misfortune of deciding to help a man who (by his own standards) was not worth the effort. Much less this: the prospect of being eaten alive while he was still reeling from a beating that should have killed him.

 

Each blow may have stunned one, but it was easily replaced by another, slowing the mime’s progress more than the webbing ever could. He _had_ to get there, he had to cross the way and reach Wilson so they could get away from this damned place; if they could just reach the other side of this clearing they would be free to move to the next world. They would be out of this spider-infested cesspool and on to whatever other challenge lay ahead of them. Wes struggled forward, finding still that the spiders seemed more and more insistent on keeping him where he was. The large nest rumbled behind him, and something started to show itself. _Herself_.

 

_o u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s o u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s o u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s o u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s o u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s o u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s o u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s o u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s o u r [ **“WILSON!”** ] s h e h u n g e r s o u r m o t h e r s h e h u n g e r s o u r m o t h e r-_

 

They came into view, and every cliché about anger and its formation washed over Wes. Maxwell as he always was- tall and regal with overtones of bemusement and malice. It could have been easy to find him charming once, but once was worlds away and years of imprisonment did nothing to improve Wes’s opinion on the devil. It was not the magician’s presence that brought such a blood-boiling reaction but rather the state of his companion. Still pale and now wrought with both determination and terror, Wilson Higgsbury was in no condition to be standing- much less charging into battle.

 

The magician leaned down, close enough that he could hear his captive’s breathing. “Remember, Higgsbury, you _begged_ for this.”

 

With an unceremonious shove, Wilson was flung into the fray. He clung to the divining rod, now the sound of the spiders around them was hard to ignore- as though their overwhelming presence was something that they could really discount at that moment. With little fanfare, Maxwell was gone and left the two men to their fates. The scientist batted one of the spiders away with the device before taking a swing at another. It made a resounding crack upon connection but in its force nearly sent Wilson toppling over. But still, he pressed forward.

 

Wes renewed his efforts to reach the other man, knowing they needed to find their exit somehow. Freedom was so close and yet it would force them to travel deeper into the fray. It was a bad tactical move, and not one that they could sustain, but the temptation was there. Strong enough that he was considering it. Being rid of this world was something Wes had wanted for years, and some selfish part of him wanted it to be done as quickly as possible. Still, there was a much more pressing need than the mime’s wants.

 

He reached forward, close enough almost that he and Wilson could touch. The amulet- Wes hadn’t dropped it yet and would not be deterred from his original goal. Wilson cocked his head to the side, opening his mouth to say something before finding it shoved into his palm. His eyes widened, and the scientist gripped the other man’s wrist; with all his weight, he leaned backwards to pull Wes out of the way of what was coming. A large, sharp leg came down precisely where Wes had been. In all their tension, they had forgotten her Majesty.

 

The large spider’s nest shook and turned itself around. The spider stood on her long, hairy legs tipped in dirty ivory talons. Her thorax was covered in webbing, almost resembling a nest where her children may dwell and her fangs were extended, a sickly green fluid dripping from her triangular mouth. Her white eyes fixed on her prey as she let out a burbling hiss. _[F i n a l l y s o m e t h i n g f r e s h!]_ The sound was harsh enough that the speaker on the divining rod rattled, threatening to go out and reduce all noise to nothing but white noise. They barely had any time to react to the onslaught. The other spiders had backed away, leaving the prey to their beloved mother to do with as she saw fit. The exits were blocked; there was no escape.

 

The two men sat on the web-covered ground, Wes scrambling to pull them both to their feet so he and Wilson could escape this. They were going to leave. They were going to get out of this, they had to get out of this. His heart was a thoroughbred galloping, and the two men locked eyes for a second. Both wore their fear openly, but neither would be defined by it. Wes pulled Wilson towards the second clearing, the one that would mean their freedom if they could only get there. The spider queen let out another gurgling growl, though the mime didn’t turn around until he felt Wilson’s hand leave his.

 

Bile rose in his throat; his heart dropped.

 

The scientist stood shocked, eyes cast downward at the spider’s clawed leg piercing through his stomach from the back. Its ivory talon stained red with the smaller man’s blood. It pulled away just as quickly, soon proving itself the only thing that kept him on his feet. He didn’t scream. He didn’t say anything. Wilson collapsed onto the webbing beneath him in the ever-spreading puddle of gore below. Wes screamed, or tried at least but no sound came forth. His throat burned, his body ached, and his stomach tensed but no sound came out. No indication of his horror beyond his rapid breathing.

 

He shook his head, knowing damned good and well that there was still a fight to contend with and there was still a very real threat to his own life… but it didn’t seem to stay with him. Didn’t seem to register that he was still in very real danger because this took precedent. He dropped to his knees, scrambling over to the scientist. Wilson wasn’t breathing. His heart wasn’t beating. The smaller man’s warm brown eyes stared blank at nothing ahead of him. Wes had given him the life-giving amulet, yes, but the mime was quick to check him over. He didn’t see it. Had Wilson put it on when he wasn’t looking? Had he dropped it? Was this… was this permanent?

 

Wes felt sick, felt that acidic remnant of stomach acid in his mouth and he knew that his own end was coming soon as well. They were going to escape, yes, but he hadn’t hoped it would be like this. The mime pulled the scientist close to his chest, cradling his bleeding and broken body close as though this moment would remind him that he hadn’t died alone. That neither of them had been alone, even if it was for a moment. He braced for the worst, knowing that the blow would come any second that would claim him as well.

 

A second turned into two, then four, then almost a whole minute. His green eyed closed tight to fight back tears, he could have sworn he felt a shuddering breath come from the body he held so tightly. Wes opened his eyes and looked around. The queen lay on the ground, merrily sleeping away with her legs curled under her. She looked just like another large, imposing spider den. Her children were no different, snoring away and passed out just as their mother was. Something gold caught his gaze.

 

There it was: the amulet, or what was left of it, at least. The gold had crumpled and the red gem was cracked and rendered black as charcoal; the remnants of the gold chain stuck intertwined between Wilson’s fingers. He pulled back to look at Wilson, breathing and whole but unconscious; it was a misconception that one sprung to life hale and hearty when they came back from the dead. These things took time, and they took an ungodly amount of energy. The process was exhausting, and the scientist’s body was well on its way to repairing itself at an inhuman speed. The hole running through his back into his stomach was gone, and his breathing became less labored. Some of his bruising from the day before had already faded.

 

Wes gathered his companion into his arms, pressing him close and protective against his chest. Gathering up the divining rod, he began his trek to the field where the next portal resided.

 

They were leaving.


End file.
